THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


A   MEMORIAL  FOR   HER    FRIENDS. 


P i E R o ' s    PAINTING 


OTHER  POEMS  AND  PAPERS, 

BY 

FLORENCE    SMITH. 


1  I 

EDITED 

BY    HENRY    W.    BELLOWS, 

PASTOR  OF  ALL  SOULS   CHURCH,    NEW  YORK. 


PRINTED,   NOT  PUBLISHED. 


NEW    YORK: 
SCRIBNER,  ARMSTRONG  &  COMPANY, 

SUCCESSORS  TO 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER  &  CO., 

654  BROADWAY. 

1872. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,   in  the  year   1872, 

BY  SCRIBNER,  ARMSTRONG  &  CO., 
In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington,  D.  C. 


POOLE  &  MACLAUCHLAN,  PRINTERS, 
205-213  East  Twelfth  Street, 


3S51 

PREFACE. 


FLORENCE  SMITH,  daughter  of  Augustus  F.  Smith  and 
Lucy  Elliot,  was  born  in  New  York,  March  u,  1845,  and 
died  after  a  sudden  illness,  in  her  father's  house  at  Fort 
Washington,  July  19,  1871. 

A  brief  memorial  by  her  Pastor,  published1  shortly  aftf  r 
her  decease,  and  reprinted  here,  will  sufficiently  introduce 
the  poems  and  few  prose  papers  now  offered  her  friends — 
which  may  safely  be  left  to  make  their  own  impression. 

[From  the  "Liberal  Christian"  of  August  10,  1871.] 

"  The  death  of  this  lovely  young  woman,  so  lately  moving 
in  beauty  and  promise  through  the  wide  circle  of  her  ac- 
quaintances, has  naturally  aroused  an  intense  feeling  of  sor- 
row and  sympathy.  Although  slight  in  frame  and  delicate 
in  appearance,  she  had  been  accustomed  to  such  an  earnest 
and  varied  life,  and  was  so  capable  of  mental  labor  and 


1051878 


iv  PREFACE. 

social  activity,  that  few  persons  could  have  imagined  hei 
either  frail  in  constitution  or  liable  to  be  taken  off  by  sudden 
illness.  Doubtless  the  recent  loss  of  a  beloved  mother  and 
an  aunt  almost  equally  dear  (both  dying  within  one  month) 
had  given  a  dangerous  shock  to  her  system.  Still  more,  the 
responsibilities  of  an  elder  sister,  called  to  take  the  place  of 
a  most  capable  and  devoted  mother,  had  wrought  upon  her 
serious  and  conscientious  nature  with  perilous  force,  and 
thinned  away  her  power  of  resistance,  until  the  assault  of 
typhoid  fever,  raging  with  unaccountable  violence  in  her 
system,  found  no  reserved  strength  there  to  oppose  it.  A 
few  days  did  the  usual  work  of  weeks  of  sickness  in  breaking 
up  her  constitution,  and  she  died  after  being  almost  during 
the  whole  of  her  severe  illness  in  an  unconscious  or  delirious 
condition.  Even  in  this  state  her  habitual  thoughtfulness 
for  others,  sweet  submission  to  pain  and  distress,  and  acqui- 
escence in  the  wishes  of  those  in  care  of  her,  triumphed 
over  an  enfeebled  and  wandering  mind.  She  even  seemed 
to  know  that  her  end  was  approaching,  and  once  breathed, 
as  if  to  herself,  the  words,  "  There  is  a  haven  of  rest  at  hand 
after  a  hard  battle."  She  asked  after  her  sister,  and  ac- 
quiesced in  her  inevitable  absence ;  breathed  the  names  of 


PREFACE.  V 

her  pastors,  and  showed  the  tenderness,  dignity,  and  dutiful 
ness  of  her  character,  even  in  that  state  when  human  re- 
sponsibleness  ceases,  and  ordinary  persons  are  so  often  made 
the  very  reverse  of  their  proper  selves. 

"  This  will  not  surprise  any  of  those  who  knew  best  this 
self-disciplined,  high-toned  and  accomplished  young  woman. 
For  although  at  an  age  when  maturity  of  powers  and  finish 
of  character  are  not  expected,  there  was  in  her  nothing 
crude,  incomplete,  or  unsettled.  Under  the  inspiration  and 
guidance  of  a  mother  only  too  anxious  to  secure  variety  and 
fulness,  thoroughness  and  harmony  in  her  education,  and 
who  had  devoted  equal  attention  to  her  mind  and  heart,  this 
sensitive  and  receptive  girl,  endowed  with  unusual  weight  of 
understanding,  with  exquisite  moral  sensibility,  and  a  taste 
for  everything  beautiful  or  artistic,  had  attained  a  culture 
and  discipline  almost  unexampled  in  women  of  her  years. 
Exact  and  thorough  in  her  elementary  scholarship ;  reading 
with  system  only  the  best  books ;  methodical  in  the  storing 
and  order  of  her  mind  ;  devoting  certain  hours  of  the  day  to 
solitude  and  study — she  had  laid  up  a  rare  amount  of  know- 
ledge, and  acquired  a  rarer  habit  of  digesting  what  she 
learned  into  wisdom.  To  her  fine  acquirements  in  English 


vi  PREFACE. 

history  and  literature  she  had  added  such  a  knowledge  of 
German,'  French,  and  Italian  as  enabled  her  to  profit  by  the 
classical  works  in  those  languages.  No  difficulties  daunted 
her  in  coping  with  anything  she  wished  to  acquire.  Patient, 
persistent,  courageous,  she  conquered  what  might  be  repug- 
nant to  her  aptitudes  by  the  force  of  her  will  and  the  inde- 
fatigableness  of  her  attention. 

"  Yet  her  solid  studies  had  a  perpetual  rival  in  her  aesthetic 
taste.  She  had  the  temperament  of  a  poet  and  the  disposi- 
tion of  an  artist.  Sensitive  to  the  beauties  of  nature,  the 
charms  of  solitary  walks  and  lonely  meditations,  she  found 
the  banks  of  the  Hudson  and  the  woods  of  Washington 
Heights  sources  of  inspiration,  and  fed  her  soul  upon  the 
ripples  of  the  river,  the  vistas  that  let  in  the  morning  and 
evening  sky,  the  budding  trees,  gay  insects  and  wild  flowers, 
until  the  divine  beauty  of  God's  world  had  fashioned  her 
spirit  into  its  own  loveliness.  The  feelings  thus  inspired  she 
could  pour  out  shyly  in  mellifluous  and  highly  imaginative 
verse,  reserved  for  the  eye  of  her  choicest  friends.  She 
celebrated  her  friendships  with  the  offering  of  her  graceful 
muse.  Had  she  lived  to  acquire  a  little  more  confidence  in 
her  own  genius  and  a  little  less  reserve,  we  cannot  doubt 


PREFACE.  v 

that  she  might  have  taken  a  public  place  among  the  acknow- 
ledged poetesses  of  the  land.  But  poetry  was  not  more  a 
necessity  of  her  nature  than  pictorial  art,  which  she  not 
only  felt  the  appetite  to  enjoy  but  the  longing  to  create. 

"The  chief  charm  of  the  new  Home  in  New  York — 
darkened  over  by  the  absence  of  the  mother  that  had  ex- 
pended so  much  thoughtfulness  and  taste  in  preparing  it  for 
her  children — was,  for  Florence,  her  own  studio,  hung  about 
with  her  own  productions,  and  where  she  found  a  rare 
pleasure  in  applying  the  knowledge  and  skill  she  had  dili- 
gently sought  in  the  studios  of  professional  artists.  The 
pencil  and  the  brush,  familiar  to  her  hands  from  an  early 
age,  were  every  day  becoming  dearer ;  music,  too,  although 
not  perhaps  the  most  attractive  and  easy  of  the  arts  to  her, 
she  had  mastered  to  a  rare  degree,  reading  classical  authors 
with  a  facility,  and  rendering  them  with  a  correctness  and 
ease,  which  only  the  persistency  of  her  unconquerable  will 
and  the  habitual  thoroughness  and  aspiration  of  her  nature 
could  have  made  possible.  Lovely  and  lofty  in  person  and 
bearing,  she  achieved  all  that  so  dignified  and  spiritually- 
minded  a  girl  could  have  desired  in  social  accomplishments 
or  successes.  Incapable  of  seeking  the  vulgar  triumphs  of 


Vlll  PREFACE 

mere  beauty,  or  of  using  the  frivolous  arts  of  thoughtless 
men-pleasers,  she  had  gained  a  place  in  the  admiration,  re- 
spect, and  affections  of  all  refined  and  competent  judges  of 
womanly  charms  and  worth  such  as  very  few  girls  attain. 
With  all  the  celestial  delicacy  and  spiritual  expression  of  a 
maiden  who  has  lost  nothing  of  the  innocency  and  freshness 
of  girlhood,  she  had  the  established  dignity  and  weight  of  an 
experienced  woman,  familiar  with  the  serious  problems  of 
life,  schooled  in  perfect  self-control,  and  settled  in  sober  and 
devout  principles. 

"This  was  largely  due  to  the  essential  piety  of  her  nature. 
From  childhood,  aspiring,  reverential,  and  addicted  to  musing 
and  meditation,  her  faith  had  been  cultivated,  until  in  the 
strength  of  it  she  lived  above  the  world  while  much  in  it, 
and  made  her  religious  convictions  and  aims  a  solid  and 
ever-present  part  of  her  daily  existence.  Her  mind  was  so 
reasoning,  in  spite  of  its  intuitive  character,  so  sensible  as 
well  as  sensitive,  so  largely  informed  as  well  as  imaginative 
and  poetic,  so  strong  although  so  gentle,  that  her  feelings 
never  ran  away  in  mere  sentiment,  or  exhaled  in  bright 
clouds.  What  she  saw,  she  heeded  and  walked  by ;  what 
she  believed,  she  lived  out ;  and  what  she  was  at  any  time, 


PREFACE.  IS 

she  seemed  capable  of  being  at  all  times.  Not  without 
some  of  the  moodiness  of  the  poetic  and  artistic  tempera- 
ment, she  had  no  moods  of  action  or  principle.  Steadiness, 
consistency,  settled  power,  marked  her  character  and  influ- 
ence. The  dignity,  elevation,  and  purity  of  her  soul,  illu- 
minating her  face  and  informing  her  carriage,  gave  her  a 
special  place  in  the  respect,  we  had  almost  said  reverence, 
of  her  companions.  She  seemed  almost  incapable  of 
descending  to  the  level  of  girlish  pleasantry  and  nonsense, 
and  can  hardly  be  conceived  of  as  falling  below  herself  even 
in  the  intimacies  of  female  friendship.  She  loved  better  to 
discuss  some  speculative  theme  in  morals,  religion,  art  or 
literature,  than  to  gossip  or  chat  idly  about  social  trifles. 
If  she  did  that  at  all,  it  must  have  been  in  condescension  to 
weaker  tastes  and  humbler  capacities. 

"Yet  her  high  pursuits  and  ideals  did  not  dwarf  her 
sense  of  the  importance  of  ordinary  domestic  cares  and 
household  duties.  She  had  a  great  idea  of  a  woman's 
domestic  virtues  and  victories — in  the  charge  of  servants, 
the  comfort  of  the  home,  the  training  of  growing  children, 
the  use  of  the  needle.  Indeed,  all  things  that  came  to 
her  in  the  holy  name  of  duty  were  at  once  accepted 


X  PREFACE. 

and  became  dignified.  No  pleasures,  no  allurements  oi 
society,  no  opportunities  of  improvement,  could  have  torn 
her  away  from  any  positive  duty,  however  humble  its 
form  or  drudging  its  performance. 

*'  What  an  ideal  is  this  for  a  girl  born  and  bred  in 
luxury,  brought  up  in  New  York  society,  who  had  seen 
life  at  home  and  abroad,  had  been  courted  and  admired, 
and  might  have  chosen  almost  any  kind  of  life  that 
suited  her  !  Perfection  ! — intellectual,  moral,  spiritual  per- 
fection !— in  attainments,  culture,  character,  had  seized 
her  heart,  captivated  her  imagination,  subdued  her  will, 
and  became  the  absorbing  passion  of  her  soul !  Nor  was 
her  ideal  self-chosen  or  a  form  of  self-worship.  God 
Himself,  seen  in  the  face  of  Jesus  Christ,  was  the  original, 
the  inspirer,  the  ever-present  nourisher  of  the  Ideal  she  pur- 
sued. Her  own  culture  was  the  worship  she  rendered  her 
Maker  with  the  conscious  purpose  of  honoring  and  glori- 
fying God.  Her  faith,  inquisitive  and  rational,  was  not  the 
skeptical,  shadowy,  and  sentimental  faith  of  many,  but  well 
grounded  in  knowledge,  deepened  by  experience,  and  rip- 
ened in  prayer  ;  it  was  positive  and  practical  and  settled  for 
daily  use  and  daily  support.  In  short,  she  was  a  serious, 


PREFACE.  xi 

devout,  and  eonsecrated  Christian,  who  had  laid  hold  of 
"the  powers  of  the  world  to  come,"  and  found  them  full 
of  peace,  comfort,  hope,  and  inspiration.  Let  others  tell 
what  Florence  was  as  a  daughter,  a  sister,  a  friend :  I 
can  only  tell  what  she  seemed  to  me  as  a  pastor,  con- 
sidering her  as  a  woman  and  a  daughter  of  God. 

"  Now  that  this  lovely  and  lofty  girl  has  passed  on,  we 
seem  all  at  once  to  feel  that  we  ought  never  to  have  expected 
her  to  stay  long  in  this  world.  A  natural  vestal,  we  feel  that 
she  fulfilled  her  mission  more  completely  in  dying  without 
any  other  ties  than  those  to  which  a  maiden  is  born.  And, 
really,  what  had  this  life  left  to  do  for  her  or  with  her  ?  We 
could  not  have  wished  her  changed  or  other  than  she  was. 
More  would  have  made  her  less.  She  had  attained  an  excep- 
tional kind  of  perfection.  It  was  her  own,  unlike  that 
of  any  other,  as  her  looks  were  all  her  own — except  in 
her  coffin,  where  she  looked  as  if  her  mother  had  re- 
turned to  die  in  her  place  !  Whose  eyes  opened  such  a 
depth  of  celestial  purity  ;  whose  brow  wore  such  heavenly 
calmness  ;  whose  hair  was  touched  with  such  angelic  gold, 
or  fell  into  a  purer  and  more  consecrated  bosom?  Who 
more  than  she  rebuked  by  her  presence  every  ill-timed  or 


Xll  PREFACE. 

less  dignified  thought  or  feeling?  What  has  this  world  to 
offer  but  descent  for  those  who  have  attained  such  snowy 
heights  of  character  ?  Heaven  opens  naturally  before  foot- 
steps that  must  sink  if  they  advance  further  upon  earth. 
God's  time  is  always  best.  And  He  has  taken  our  Florence 
"  like  a  lily  in  bloom,"  before  its  fragrance  had  lessened,  or 
its  petals  received  one  stain,  but  not  before  it  had  opened  in 
all  its  beauty,  and  been  recognized  as  among  the  rarest, 
sweetest,  whitest  of  flowers  !" 


POEMS. 


PIERO'S    PAINTING. 

Dedicated  to  my  Cousin  Edith,  who  once  asked  me  to  write  a  story 

IN  Michael  Angelo's  house  in  Florence  there  is  a  little  room  which  not 
everybody  enters.  There  is  kept  sacred  his  writing-desk,  with  some  auto- 
graph verses,  and  there  hangs  the  picture  of  a  lovely  youthful  face,  golden- 
haired,  with  down-dropped  lids,  simply  painted,  but  a  face  one  never  can 
forget.  They  call  it  Vittoria  Colonna,  but  the  master  never  saw  his  friend 
till  she  was  long  past  that  early  bloom.  It  was  strange  and  touching 
to  see  it  there  ;  but,  though  no  one  ever  told  me,  I  think  my  "  Piero  " 
must  have  painted  it  !  The  story  is  all  my  own,  except  the  anecdote  of 
the  child's  request,  which  I  found  in  Grimm's  "  Life." 

A  TALE  of  one  who  lived  and  loved  in  Rome  ; 

Not  long,  nor  sad,  although  it  ends  with  death — 

For  all  lives  touch  the  River  at  the  last. 

The  other  shore  we  see  not,  but  I  think 

This  life,  though  short,  could  not  be  wholly  sad, 

Because  an  Angel  came  to  end  it.     Yes — 

If  the  young  eyelids  closed  from  stress  of  light, 

They  opened  not  on  darkness  afterward  ! 


PIERO'S   PAINTING. 

There  is  no  face  in  Rome  now,  like  to  his, — 
My  Piero's,  whose  deep  eyes,  half  light,  half  gloom, 
Shine  still  upon  me  through  three  hundred  years  ; 
No  matter  where  I  saw  them, — some  dim  sketch 
By  Raphael's  hand,  blurred  by  an  afterthought 
Of  heavenly  babyhood, — but  shining  so, 
Behind  the  darkness  and  the  dust  of  years, 
Methinks  they  live  yet.     Therefore  I,  as  one 
Who  knows  their  story,  should  not  let  it  die. 

If  you  could  see  him  as  I  see  him  now  ! 
Brown  cheeks,   sun-touched  to    crimson,  mouth  and 

eyes, 

Through  possibility  of  sadness,  sweet — 
Enough  !    I  told  you  he  was  beautiful. 
This  gift  had  Nature  given  him,  and  one  more — 
To  know  her  beautiful  who  gave  him  this, 
And  find  her  beauty  out  in  everything. 
'Twas  much — yes,  truly  !  yet  men  called  him  poor. 

Down  the  steep  hill  where  stands  the  Capitol, 
There  winds  a  street  where  low  huts  hide  their  heads, — 
Shells  clinging  to  a  wreck  of  palaces, — 
And  there  dwelt  Piero.      'Twas  in  the  old  days, 
And  gardens  trailed  their  glories  down  the  slope, 
Where  modern  Rome  now  treads  with  busy  feet. 


PIERO'S    PAINTING.  9 

'Twas  lovelier  then. — There  day  by  day  the  boy 

With  his  young  sister  Lucia  gathered  flowers, 

And  twisted  posies  for  the  dames  of  Rome. 

Light  food  they  needed,  slept  light  sleep,  but  calm, 

And  knew  no  care,  nor  lived  but  for  the  hour. 

—  A  boy  I  called  him,  ay  !    but  so  much  man, 

That  clouds  to  children  were  as  storms  to  him, 

And  mere  warm  sunshine  filled  his  veins  with  flame. 

Life's  blossom  yet  was  folded  in  the  bud — 

It  needed  but  a  touch  to  burst  in  bloom  ! 

Art  ruled  in  Rome  then,  and  Rome  ruled  the  world. 

What  wonder  if  her  children  stepped  as  kings, 

When  Beauty  stooped  from  heaven  as  handmaiden 

To  do  the  bidding  of  the  lowliest, 

And  princes  knelt  while  beggars  were  divine — 

The  crown  cast  down  before  the  aureole  ! 

Not  perfect  times  those,  neither.     Let  that  pass — 

I  have  to  do  with  Art ;    she  much  with  heaven  ! 

Those  were  the  days  of  Michael  Angelo — 

Man,  sculptor — who  in  cool  Firenze  strove 

With  life  as  with  the  marble,  moulding  it 

By  master-strokes  to  more  than  mortal.     He 

On  Rome's  horizon  like  a  mountain  stood, 

Not  dim,  but  grand  in  distance,  rugged,  vast, 


IO  PIERO'S    PAINTING. 

Like  that  Carrara,  which  his  soul  was  fain 

In  hollowing  out  to  set  on  giant  feet, 

A  mighty  statue,  frowning  on  the  sea. 

So  stood  he  by  the  Arno.     Raphael, 

A  rippling  lake,  that  mirrored  heaven — and  him — 

O'erflowing  with  Italian  sunshine,  poured 

His  warm  soul  forth  upon  the  dazzled  world, 

And  garlanded  with  flowers  the  feet  of  Rome. 

The  air  was  steeped  in  beauty,  as  those  groves, 

In  fair  Sorrento,  by  the  southern  sea, 
That  palpitate  with  perfume  through  green  gloom, 
Dropping  their  sphered  gold  from  branches,  white 
With  sprinkled  stars — the  new  Hesperides  ! 
— Mere  breath  was  living  then,  and  life  was  joy, 
Unless  transfused  by  love's  more  poignant  bliss,. 
That  knows  death  best,  because  itself  is  life  ! 
So  lived  this  one  I  write  of,  and  so  died — 
So  loved,  and  therefore,  dying,  conquered  death  ! 
When  the  dew  faded  from  the  gathered  flowers, 
And  hot  noon  filled  the  streets,  they  wandered  forth, 
Piero  and  Lucia,  where  some  shadowed  church 
Gave  back  cool  echoes  to  their  footsteps.     Dim 
With  incense,  stirring  with  low  organ-swells, 
And  luminous  with  dusky  bars  of  light, 


PIERO'S    PAINTING.  II 

'Twas  an  enchanted  air.     Far  down  the  aisle 
The  tapers  flickered  o'er  the  altar  white, 
And  a  sweet,  shadowy  maiden-face  looked  down, 
Lit  up  with  sudden  glory  ;  martyred  saints 
Smiled  from  the  pictured  walls  and  startled  them  ; 
While  here  and  there  a  kneeling  worshipper 
Told  o'er  his  beads  with  downcast  eyes,  nor  recked 
Aught  of  those  radiant  forms  that  filled  the  church, 
Down  floating  from  the  walls  like  wreaths  of  mist ! 
So  passed  the  mid-day,  till  the  afternoon 
Grew  golden  on  the  lone  Campagna.     There, 
Beneath  some  broken  archway,  grown  with  vines, 
They  lay  and  watched  the  shadows  lengthening, 
And  over  the  blue  Alban  hills  the  sun 
Down-dropping  dreamily  to  his  warm  couch, 
Grown  splendid,  purple-curtained,  in  the  West. 
Then,  with  the  glow  upon  their  faces,  turned, 
And  homeward  went,  through  twilight  streets  astir. 
Sometimes  as  models  in  the  studios 
They  spent  long  days,  and  listened  to  the  talk 
Of  artists  and  young  students,  grave  or  gay, 
Light  chatter  :  who  was  fairest  at  the  feast, 
What  doublet  best  became  Aurelio, 
And  whether  Giulia  smiled  when  Cosmo  sighed  ! 


12  PIERO'S    PAINTING. 

But  this  was  little.     Hours  on  hours  went  by, 

While  silence  filled  the  room — the  soft  light  came 

Warm  through  the  curtain,  while  young  Piero  stood 

With  arms  uplift,  breast  bared  for  piercing,  hair 

Tossed  back  from  forehead,  and  deep  eyes  alight 

With  mingled  pain  and  rapture,  as  he  deemed 

Himself  in  very  truth  the  hero-saint, 

The  beautiful  Sebastian,  waiting  death  ! 

As  Stephen  he  had  knelt,  as  David  touched 

A  harp  of  gold,  and  dreamed  what  it  might  be 

To  make  such  music  as  the  poet  king, 

While  he,  alas  !  so  near  the  strings,  was  dumb  ! 

So  the  saints'  stories  grew  familiar  things, 

Though  sacred  none  the  less,  and  some  sweet  tales 

Of  heathen  love  and  longing  mixed  with  them, 

Until  he  had  two  worlds,  and  that  less  near 

Was  fairest.     Sometimes,  with  grave,  reverent  words, 

The  master  talked  of  Art,  whose  height  supreme 

No  man  might  reach  this  side  of  all-wise  Death. 

But  who  in  this  life  most  attained,  was  he 

Whose  heart  reached  for  the  unattainable  ! 

Some  days  were  broken  when  the  patron  came — 

Some  rich-robed  lord,  or  crimson  cardinal — 

And  praised,  or  dared  to  blame  the  picture  ;  told 


PIERO'S    PAINTING.  13 

Of  the  last  statue  on  the  Palatine, 
Found  in  the  diggings  ordered  by  the  Pope — 
An  emperor's  bust,  a  scornful,  conquering  god, 
Or  foam-white  Venus  of  Praxiteles. 
Listening  behind  the  master's  easel,  then 
The  boy  would  watch  the  canvas,  growing  warm 
Beneath  the  heaped-up  touches  of  the  brush, 
And  strive  to  ravel  out  the  mingled  hues. 
Sometimes  they  spoke  of  wars  or  politics, 
But  that  passed  by  unheeded,  till  the  talk 
Fell  on  some  word  of  Michael  Angelo's 
To  Julius,  or  the  Emperor's  answer,  made 
To  taunting  courtier  :  "  Dukes  are  mine, 
To  make  or  unmake  ;  but  the  artist,  God's  !  " 
Then  glanced  the  tide  of  converse  yet  aside 
With  richly-flowing  words,  to  tell  of  feasts 
In  Florence,  or  of  looked-for  pomps  in  Rome, 
And  so  back  to  the  common  world  again. 

Yet  so  glowed  in  his  breast  the  artist-soul, 
That  all  these  things  had  meanings  ;  and  the  blare 
Of  trumpets,  and  the  swaying,  measured  steps 
Of  incense-bearers,  and  the  gleam  of  gold, 
And  glory  of  great  banners  overhead, 
Thrilled  through  him  in  hot  bursts  of  pulsing  life 


T4  PIERO'S    PAINTING. 

Only  in  watching  a  procession. — Well, 
There  came  a  day  when  some  high  festival 
Had  set  the  city  stirring  with  the  morn. 
Crowds  met  in  the  piazza.     Peasants,  priests, 
None  talked  but  of  the  pageant.     I  forget 
What  was  the  special  reason  of  the  pomp — 
Perhaps  a  noble  marriage.     This  at  least 
I  know — all  Rome  knew — that  the  fairest  dames, 
And  proudest  from  among  the  splendid  court, 
Granting  unwonted  grace,  had  deigned  to  shine, 
The  cynosure  to-day  of  all  the  show. 

Great  stir  of  rustling  garments  moved  the  air, 
And  murmur  of  hushed  voices,  when  the  noon 
Rained  down  from  thousand  bells  a  shower  of  sound, 
And  the  sharp  sunshine  smote  the  air  to  gold. 
On  through  the  streets  the  gorgeous  pageant  rolled  ; 
Wave  after  wave  of  music  and  of  light 
Rose  high,  and  passed  ;  while  Piero  stood  athirst, 
Waiting  and  watching,  with  his  kindled  eyes 
Upraised  in  expectation,  lips  apart 
With    panting,  breaths,    and    careless    hands   down- 
dropped, 

With  their  sweet  burden  of  forgotten  flowers. 
He  knew  not  what  he  looked  for,  but  his  heart 


PIERO'S    PAINTING.  15 

Was  nigh  to  breaking  with  a  boding  joy. 
Life,  one  long  passion  for  the  beautiful, 
Struggling  within  him  toward  this  perfect  hour, 
Stood  up  full-statured,  stretching  out  its  arms — 
Full-blossomed  manhood,  reaching  for  its  crown. 
— Not  much,  perhaps,  to  move  him,  and  yet  all — 
Sound,  sight,  breath,  being — perfectly  attuned, 
Waiting  one  touch,  divine,  invisible, 
To  find  a  conscious  self  in  harmony  ! 
So  the  young  lyre,  before  Apollo  woke 
The  soul  that  slept  within  it,  must  have  dreamed, 
The  gold  strings  tense  with  longing — life  astir 
Beneath  the  pulsing  chords  that  felt  his  breath, 
Leaping  to  meet  his  fiery  finger-tips — 
Not  yet  quite  music,  but  the  joy  of  it  ! 

On  swept  the  stream  of  color  and  sweet  sound, 
Till  the  flood  rose  into  a  dazzling  crest 
Of  blinding  white,  while  uptossed  flowers,  like  spray, 
Made  rainbows  all  around.     High  o'er  the  crowd, 
Enthroned  on  a  car  of  ivory, 

Shell-shaped,  gold-blazoned,  clust'ring  in  warm  shade 
Of  curtains  rose-streaked  like  the  nautilus, 
With  fair  arms  wreathed  as  for  the  dance,  they  stood, 
Like  sea-nymphs  bathed  in  sunrise.     Radiant 


l6  PIERO'S    PAINTING. 

Each  form,  from  bright  hair,  seaweed-garlanded, 

To  pearly  feet,  kissed  by  the  floating  hem 

Of  garments  shining  like  the  tinted  dawn. 

So,  slowly,  twined  in  swaying  harmonies 

Of  movement  that  was  music,  on  they  came. 

A  crowd  of  mimic  Tritons  danced  before, 

Blowing  their  conchs  ;  while  hidden  instruments, 

Clear  pipes,  and  throbbing  viols,  choked  with  joy, 

Dissolved  their  souls,  like  Cleopatra's  pearl, 

Filling  with  perfect  beauty  Life's  full  cup, 

To  overflow  in  rapture  that  was  pain  ! 

— And  Piero  stood  and  waited  by  the  way, 

Like  that  blind  one  who  cried  aloud  for  sight, 

When  the  irradiate  Presence,  passing  by, 

Smote  his  dull  orbs  with  light's  presentiment  ! 

It  came  at  last,  long  looked-for,  but  not  seen — 

The  joy  that  should  be  his  for  evermore — 

Hidden  by  veiling  moisture  of  dim  eyes, 

That  through  the  dazzle  set  a  crown  of  rays 

On  every  head,  and  saw  the  crown,  no  face  ! 

So  blazed  the  splendor  on  him  through  quick  tears. 

Nearer  they  came,  and  clearer  grew  his  sight, 
Till  close  upon  him  beamed  one  lovely  face, 
Fairest  amid  the  fair,  and  noblest  far 


PIERO'S    PAINTING.  I/ 

Where  all  were  noble.     Ay,  a  queen  she  seemed, 
By  the  white  brow,  wreathed  with  rare  hair  of  gold, 
And  the  pure  arch  above  the  regal  eyes, 
Calm  through  sweet  strength,  that  could  command 

with  smiles  ! 

A  queen  she  was,  and  born  to  rule  all  hearts — 
Worshipped  already — at  whose  feet  the  great 
Had  knelt,  should  kneel,  till  one,  most  great  of  all, 
In  after  days — her  prince  and  peer — should  come, 
And  lead  her  forth  from  flowery  paths,  to  sit 
On  a  pure  throne  with  him,  above  the  world. 
Vittoria  Colonna,  sovereign  soul 
That  dared  to  claim  its  equal,  dared  to  love 
As  angels  love,  beloved  by  angels  ! 
A  glorious  face,  yet  very  woman's  too — 
With  tender  lips,  within  whose  dainty  curves 
Joy  nestled  dreamily  ;  proud  too,  but  sweet — 
So  sweet  one  wondered  if  their  smile  could  need 
The  touch  of  pain  to  make  it  holier. 
(That  last  grace  too  was  hers,  but  afterward.) 
Within  the  rosy  shadow  bright  she  stood, 
Like  morn's  fair  star,  half  hid  in  veiling  mist, 
A  promise  of  the  glory  yet  to  be  ! 
So  broke  the  dawn  upon  him  through  her  face. 

2 


l8  PIERO'S    PAINTING. 

Like  mystic  Aphrodite,  from  the  sea 

Of  troubled  longing,  vague,  and  vast,  and  dim, 

Where  lay  a  world  yet  uncreate,  she  rose — 

Beauty  from  chaos,  bringing  love. — His  heart 

Waked  with  the  sudden  raising  of  her  lids, 

And  the  sweet  pain  was  life.     Somewhat  apart 

She  had  been  standing,  till  she  felt  his  look, 

And  half  she  stooped  to  reach  the  wealth  of  flowers 

He  lifted  with  his  trembling  hands  to  hers. 

A  little  flushed  before  so  many  eyes, 

Yet  queenly  still,  she  rose  and  turned,  then  smiled  ; 

And  while  he  stood  entranced,  the  spell  was  sealed 

By  the  sweet  sudden  magic  of  her  voice. 

"  Grazia,  son  belle" — some  such  gracious  words, 

Sweet  Tuscan,  nobler  in  her  Roman  mouth  ! 

—  He  went  away  and  loved  her.     That  was  all. 

What  matter  if  the  pageant  passed  him  by, 

Leaving  him  there  a  moment  motionless, 

With  outstretched  arms,  as  groping  for  lost  light — 

Blind  ?  ay  !  but  blind  as  one  who  sees  the  sun, 

And  having  dared  to  look  so  high,  no  more 

Sees  any  brilliancy  in  earthly  bloom, 

But  that  one  image  floats  before  his  sight, 

A  haunting  glory,  dimming  the  low  world  ! 


PIE  RO'S    PAINTING.  19 

Back  through  the  crowd  with  faltering  steps  he  went, 
And  sought  the  lowly  cabin  where  he  dwelt. 
Far  from  the  surging  murmur  of  the  streets, 
Quiet  it  was,  but  lonely  nevermore. 
One  presence  filled  the  air,  one  silver  voice 
Made  rich  the  silence,  and  one  lovely  face 
Startled  the  sunshine  with  a  sweet  surprise. 
Still  was  the  house,  and  bright  with  afternoon. 
Lucia  had  lingered  till  the  show  was  past, 
Cared  for  by  some  kind  neighbor.     On  the  floor 
His  footsteps  echoed  strangely,  and  his  breath 
Seemed  loud  there,  in  the  hush  that  was  not  calm. 
Something  had  entered  and  possessed  the  place, 
And,  like  a  subtle  scent  invisible, 
Flooded  his  senses  with  a  vague  delight. 
It  had  come  in  before  him,  the  new  joy, 
Transfiguring  the  old  life  with  sense  of  change ! 
— And  he  sank  down,  his  face  between  his  hands, 
O'erwhelmed  with  a  strange  languor,  while  his  dream 
(If  dream  it  was)  worked  all  its  will  with  him. 
Long  did  he  sit  there,  till  the  darkness  fell, 
And  the  short  twilight  blossomed  into  stars  ; 
Then  roused  him  suddenly  at  sound  of  feet, 
And  a  young,  joyous  voice  without  the  door. 


20  PIERO'S    PAINTING. 

He  rose  and  let  the  prattling  Lucia  in, 
And  smiled,  and  listened  to  her  merry  talk. 
But  the  words  seemed  to  come  from  far  away, 
And  he  smiled  absently,  with  eyes  that  looked 
Beyond  into  the  distance,  seeking  still 
The  beauty  of  that  vision  he  had  seen  ! 
From  that  day  forth  a  shadow  filled  his  life, 
Fallen  from  too  much  brightness.     'Twas  a  veil 
Between  him  and  the  glitter  of  the  world — 
Scarce  seen  of  men,  and  yet  it  shut  him  in 
Alone — with  that  one  glory  of  his  dream  ! 
One  vivid  moment  leaped  up  in  the  past, 
And,  contradicting  earth  and  time  with  heaven, 
Made  an  eternal  Now  of  memory ! 
—  One  might  have  called  him  sorrowful,  and  yet 
Such  woe  as  his  was  nigh  of  kin  to  bliss. 
The  world  around  him  faded  to  a  dream ; 
His  dream  became  a  world.     Therein  he  lived, 
Silent  among  the  smiling,  although  fain 
That  others  should  be  happy  ;  but  sometimes, 
When  the  gay  faces  round  him  had  grown  grave, 
Tired  out  with  too  much  laughter,  his  still  gaze, 
Burning  with  steady  brightness,  drew  down  joy 
From  heights  they  knew  not  of,  and  smiled  indeed 


PIERO'S    PAINTING.  21 

Tender  he  was  to  the  fair  little  one — 
His  sister,  whom  he  cherished  till  he  died — 
But  restless  at  the  heart,  so  that  his  life, 
And  e'en  his  loving  cares,  grew  wearisome. 
The  days  passed  slowly,  lengthening  hour  by  hour, 
Until  he  scarce  was  'ware  of  day  or  night, 
Nor  anything  but  one  great  panting  pause, 
Wherein  the  whole'world  seemed  to  hold  its  breath ; 
Not  death,  nor  sleep,  but  the  strange  darkling  trance 
Wherein  life  circles  slowly,  with  great  wings 
Brooding,  and  from  the  shadow  comes  the  Birth. 
So  in  a  mystery  long  while  he  walked, 
Encompassed  with  dull  pain,  till  in  his  soul 
A  something  stirred,  a  passionate  dumb  ache, 
That  woke  one  day  and  cried  ;  so,  finding  voice, 
The  hidden  yearning  grew  the  conscious  Love. 
— Men  say  there  is  no  love  where  hope  is  not. 
It  is  not  so — for  verily  he  loved, 
This  simple  youth  in  Italy  that  time, 
Pouring  his  soul  out  at  her  royal  feet, 
)Who  smiled,  and  then  forgot  him.     Ay,  no  hope, 
But  endless  longing  had  he,  endless  love  ! 
A  flame  had  dropped  from  heaven  upon  his  heart 
As  on  an  altar,  burning  self  away — 


22  PIERO'S    PAINTING. 

On  fiery  pinions  snatching  up  his  life, 

To  burn,  one  glory  more,  amid  God's  stars. 

Ah  !  tell  me  whether  in  the  courts  of  heaven 

The  seraphs  and  the  crowned  cherubim, 

With  rapturous  voices  tuned  to  one  hymn, 

'Twixt  love  and  worship  know  of  difference  ! 

'Tis  the  grand  angels  nearest  to  the  Throne 

That  bow  the  lowest.     Man  thinks"  otherwise. 

But  to  my  tale. — There's  truth,  too,  in  those  words, 

So  very  human  :  "  Without  hope,  no  love  !  " 

There  must  be  some  fruition  for  desire — 

Some  visible  height,  beneath  the  clouds,  to  climb, 

Or  aspiration  might  become  despair. 

Love  is  not  love  till  something's  born  of  it. 

Therefore  this  kindling  joy  that  filled  his  soul 

Must  find  an  outlet — though  in  catching  air 

It  burned  him  with  it !     Shining  still,  one  face 

Made  a  great  radiance  in  him,  till  at  last 

He  needs  must  give  that  beauty  to  the  world. 

Not  that  the  world  cared — could  it  ever  know 

The  innermost  sweet  secret  of  those  eyes, 

Into  whose  depths  he  looked,  as  day  by  day 

He  strove  to  paint  her  portrait !     She  did  seem 

More  gracious  ever — turning  not  away 


PIERO'S    PAINTING.  23 

The  while  he  gazed — she  even  looked  again, 
Drinking  his  eyes  up  into  hers.     Almost 
At  times  a  faintness  seized  him,  and  the  brush 
Dropped  from  a  hand  that  trembling  did  not  dare 
To  give  such  loveliness  an  earthly  mould  ! 
Before  his  easel  rapt,  so  passed  the  days. 
His  mood  grew  silent  ever,  and  his  sleep 
Went  from  him.     Scarce  he  touched  the  simple  food 
That  Lucia  brought  him — marvelling  with  wide  eyes 
At  the  fair  lady  with  the  golden  hair, 
Whom  Piero  had  such  wondrous  skill  to  put 
On  the  rough  canvas — that  he  looked  at  so  ! 
'Twas  like  that  one  in  the  procession  !     Thus 
She  talked,  a  childish  chatter,  falling  light 
Upon  his  ears,  like  babbling  foam  that  comes 
Against  a  shore  that  trembles  at  the  shock 
Of  the  huge  thunderous  undertone  of  waves. 
No  more  in  the  fair  gardens  'neath  the  sun 
He  twined  the  dewy  flowers,  no  more  he  went 
At  evening  to  the  solitary  fields 
Of  the  Campagna,  where  the  herdsman's  staff 
Guided  the  tinkling  flocks  to  the  still  fold. 
"What's  come   to  Piero?"    asked   his   bright-eyed 
mates, 


24  PIERO'S    PAINTING. 

Who  missed  him  at  the  vintage  and  the  dance. 

In  blue  Albano,  'mid  the  hazy  hills, 

They  plucked  the  purple  grapes,  and,  crowned  with 

leaves, 

Sang  merry  songs  with  intertwined  arms, 
And  kissed  the  glowing  cheeks  of  sunburnt  maids. 
"  What's  come  to  Piero  ?  " — Then  there  grew  a  talk 
About  the  picture.     'Twas  so  beautiful 
That  it  could  speak,  some  said — and  half  they  feared 
To  talk  about  it.     Very  few  had  seen. 
They  came  away  with  hushed  steps  and  held  breath, 
For,  faith  !  there  came  a  radiance  from  the  hair — 
And  Piero  looked  so  strangely  pale  and  wild. 
Then,  Piero  was  no  artist.     Did  they  know — 
Any  among  the  talkers — of  a  sketch 
That  he  had  ever  made  ?     It  was  quite  true 
That  he  had  sat  oft  in  the  studios, 
And  might  have  caught  some  trick  of  color  there, 
But    that    would    not    account.       'Twas    something 

strange — 

Some  magic,  that  had  wrought  the  wondrous  thing  ! 
I  tell  not  what  they  guessed,  but  'twas  the  truth — 
Their  words  the  shadow  of  it.     From  his  lips 
The  color  went  to  brighten  hers ;  his  cheeks, 


PIERO'S    PAINTING.  2$ 

While  the  blood  mantled  up  in  hers,  grew  pale  ; 
And  while  the  light  went  slowly  from  his  eyes, 
Those  in  the  picture,  'neath  their  half-dropped  lids, 
Needed  that  shadow,  lest  you  dared  not  gaze  ! 
So  his  face  faded  while  the  canvas  glowed — 
And  so  his  life  was  wrought  into  his  work. 

My  tale  is  almost  done.     How  long  it  was 
He  labored  so,  while  the  bright  marvellous  tints 
Grew  to  unearthly  beauty  'neath  his  hand, 
The  story  saith  not — but  for  him  at  last 
It  came — "  the  fulness  of  the  time  " — when  death 
In  one  more  hour  should  crown  his  work — and  him  ! 

O'erworn  at  last  with  utter  weariness, 
He  sat  before  his  easel — the  strong  flame 
That  until  now  had  lifted  up  his  soul 
Grew  faint  within  him — nigh  to  sink,  at  last, 
In  the  sad  embers  of  his  burnt-out  youth. 
Full  precious  were  the  gifts — myrrh,  frankincense, 
And  balm,  and  rich  red  gold — that  he  did  cast 
Upon  that  altar-fire,  when  life  was  his, 
And  hope,  and  brave  ambition,  scorning  death. 
And  now,  what  was  there  more  ?     Yet  there  did  lack 
One  touch  divine  to  bring  the  living  breath 
Into  that  picture  that  he  loved  as  life. 


26  PIERO'S    PAINTING. 

Too  weak,  too  weak  !  his  very  heart  cried  out — 
Death  hung  above  him,  stifling  out  the  sun — 
So  dark,  so  dark  !    O  God,  was  this  the  end  ? 
"  I  cannot  die  !  "  he  moaned — "  Not  even  this — 
Not  this  for  all  the  life  that  might  have  been  ? 
Give  me  one  moment  I  can  call  supreme — 
One  joy  in  this  being  perfect,  if  naught  else  !  " 
He  fell  upon  the  floor,  and  a  deep  swoon 
Held  him,  with  lids  too  close  for  the  last  sleep. 
— Yet  so  behind  him  Death  had  closed  for  aye 
The  gate  of  Pain,  that  grated  with  harsh  bolt, 
Leaving  him  there  to  wait  a  little  space 
Between  the  anguish  and  the  Silence. — Then, 
Within  that  trance  enfolded,  came  once  more 
His  love,  and  nearer,  till  he  felt  her  breath 
Upon  his  face,  grown  cold  with  gathering  dew 
Of  the  last  Night — when  heaven  shall  open  up 
Its  depths  on  depths  of  unimagincd  stars  ! 
She  smiled,  and  he  could  watch  her  smile, — so  calm, 
So  strangely  calm  had  grown  his  heart,  the  while 
She  looked  on  him  with  passionless  pure  eyes, 
So  deep  the  world  seemed  sunk  in  them  and  lost. 
More  heavenly  was  she,  and  he  less  afraid  ! 
He  felt  a  voice  about  him,  though  her  mouth 


PIERO'S    PAINTING.  2/ 

Moved  not,  she  was  so  still.     "  I  know,"  it  said — 

"  'Tis  much  that  thou  hast  given — youth,  hope, 

And  young  ambition  thou  didst  consecrate 

Unto  one  service — mine,  and  Love's.     Almost 

The  sacrifice  is  finished.     Wilt  thou  give 

Thy  life  to  crown  the  offering  perfect  ?     Nay — 

Look  on  me  once,  and  speak  not.     Now  farewell. 

One  hour  is  given  thee  before  thou  die — 

One  hour — but  one — and  thou  shalt  live  !     Farewell." 

He  rose,  with  a  strange  calmness  on  his  lips, 

Set  closely  in  the  wonderful  last  smile — 

And  painted  silently.     No  sound  was  there — 

'Twas  early  morning,  and  the  birds  began 

To  carol,  shrilly -sweet,  without  the  door1. 

He  heard  them  not — he  knew  not  it  was  dawn, 

But  in  his  eyes  there  stood  another  Sun — 

And  his  face  blazed  a  moment,  ere  'twas  white. 

— Look,  look  !  had  you  forgot  the  picture  ?     See, 

It  stirs — the  lips  are  parting — a  quick  flush 

Runs  o'er  the  forehead  like  a  shadow.     Wait ! 

Those  lids  are  lifting — can  it  be  she  breathes  ? 

No,  no  !  it  was  the  flutter  of  the  wind 

That  shook  the  canvas.     It  is  morn,  you  know! 

Hark  !  now  the  breeze  has  sunk — 'tis  very  still — 


28  PIERO'S    PAINTING. 

I  hear  no  bird  even — ah  !  is  that  his  face  ? 

The  ashy  veil  has  fallen — quick,  he  swoons  ! 

But  soft !  a  gleam  has  come  into  his  eyes — 

Did  you  hear  nothing  ?     'Twas  a  shuddering  sigh, 

As  when  one  wakes  from  sleep — the  picture,  see — 

I  dare  not  look — but  I  do  think  she  smiled  ! 

"  Vittoria  !  " — a  sudden  cry — he  falls, 

And  all  is  silent,  save  the  piercing  pain 

That  echoes  from  that  joy,  too  sharp  for  earth. 

Dying,  he  snatched  down  victory — dying,  too, 

He  spoke  her  name,  and  knew  not  it  was  hers  ! 


YEARS  passed  away,  and  o'er  a  quiet  grave 
The  violets  blossomed  thicker  every  spring — 
Like  memory,  grown  sweeter  for  past  pain  ! 
Yet  the  short  life  had  almost  been  forgot, 
So  long  ago  it  was — when  on  a  day 
It  chanced  that  Michael  Angelo,  being  then 
In  Rome,  and  old,  and  drawing  near  his  end, 
With  slow  steps,  wrapped  in  mighty  musing,  walked 
At  evening  homeward  through  the  narrow  street 
That  led,  past  gardens,  from  the  Capitol. 


PIERO'S    PAINTING.  2Q 

Let  none  dare  tell  what  thoughts  were  his  that  day — 

What  dream  of  his  grand  work,  already  great — 

Forever  incomplete,  yet  so  sublime— 

The  world's  last  Temple,  and  his  monument ! 

In  that  stern  lonely  heart  what  thoughts  of  death, 

What  memories  of  life — what  yearnings  vast 

After  that  heaven,  that  was  to  him  so  deep  ! 

Let  none  dare  tell — for  with  that  mighty  soul 

Never  but  one  could  hold  companionship — 

His  Friend,  loved  as  no  woman  e'er  was  loved, 

His  guide,  his  counsellor,  and  worthy  all. 

Perchance  of  Her  he  mused,  for  she  was  dead. 

Let  us  be  mute — that  thought  is  sacred  most ! 

— So  passed  he  down  the  steep  path  silently, 

With  head  a  little  bent,  nor  heeding  aught 

Of  passers-by,  who  whispering  pointed  out 

With  awe  the  Master — till  he  was  aware 

Of  a  small  sudden  voice,  that  broke  from  lips 

Of  dainty  red,  beneath  a  child's  wide  eyes, 

That  gazed,  and  wondered,  yet  were  not  afraid. 

"  Are  you  the  Messer  Michael  Angelo  ?  " 

Then  with  the  simple  faith  that  knows  no  fear, 

And  "  moveth  all  things,"  did  it  speak  again. 

"  It  is  a  long  time  I  have  waited,  Sir — 


3O  PIERO'S    PAINTING. 

Yet  I  was  glad  to  wait,  because  I  thought 

So  much  about  the  thing  that  I  would  ask — 

Yet  now  I  think  I  am  afraid  !     Perhaps 

You'd  make  a  little  picture  for  me,  Sir — 

Just  standing  here — yes,  something  beautiful !  " 

And  his  eyes  shone  with  hope,  and  his  round  cheeks 

Dimpled  with  innocent  smiles  that  came  and  went. 

An  answering  smile  lit  up  the  old  man's  face, 

And  the  sweet  trustful  heart  made  his  heart  warm. 

Together,  silent,  in  the  sunny  street, 

With  the  slant  rays  behind  them,  stood  the  two — 

One  looking  upward,  waiting,  somewhat  awed, 

The  other  stooping,  while  upon  his  knee 

He  sketched  an  outline  of  the  lovely  thought 

The  child's  eyes  waked  within  him,  while  he  drew. 

'Twas  a  Madonna,  and  the  face  was  hers, 

His  own  Vittoria's,  in  heavenly  guise, 

With  the  fair  Child  asleep  upon  her  arm, 

While  the  young,  large-eyed  John,  with  gaze  intent, 

Knelt  close  beside  her,  looking  in  her  face — 

With  this  same  loving  reverent  childlikeness. 

"  Ah,  'tis  so  like  !  "  the  little  one  cried  out — 

"  So  very  like  !  and  have  you  seen  her  then  ? 

The  lady  Piero  painted  long  ago, 


PIERO'S    PAINTING.  31 

And  loved — though  he  had  seen  her  only  once  ? 
So  long  ago  it  is,  my  mother  scarce 
Remembers  it — she  was  so  young — but  sure 
'Tis  true,  for  many  people  heard  of  it  1 
He  was  my  mother's  brother,  and  he  died 
In  painting  her. — He  loved  her,  Sir,  too  much — - 
My  mother  said. — Will  you  not  come  and  see  ?  " 
"  Where  is  it,  child  ?  "  the  Master  said,  and  went 
Where  the  small  footsteps  led  him,  to  the  house, 
And  heard  the  story  from  the  mother's  lips, 
And  saw  the  picture.     Much  his  soul  was  moved, 
Seeing  her  face — so  young — whom  he  had  known 
Past  springtime's  flush — most  fair,  but  different  ! 
His  eyes  grew  moist  with  unaccustomed  tears — 
Looking  upon  her,  knowing  her  so  loved, 
And  loving  her  himself  unto  the  end. 
— So  the  old  tender  tale  of  love  and  death 
Was  new  again,  through  love  that  never  dies  ! 

They  gave  the  picture  to  him.     It  is  yet 
In  Florence,  where  I  saw  it  in  his  house. 

Written  between  Aug.  4th  and  Oct  23d,  1870, 
at  Fort  Washington  and  Lenox. 


32        SOME    THOUGHTS    ABOUT    A    WORD. 


SOME    THOUGHTS    ABOUT    A   WORD. 


SUGGESTED  BY 


The  Sanskrit  name  for  love  is  smara :  it  is  derived  from  smar,  to  re- 
collect, and  the  same  root  has  supplied  the  German  schmerz  pain,  and 
Eng.  smart. — MAX  MULLER,  Science  of  Language, 


An  amor  dolor  sit,  an  dolor  amor  sit. 

Utrumque  nescio — 

Hoc  unum  sentio, 
Si  amor  dolor  est,  jucundus  dolor  est. 

(From  a  Latin  mystical  hymn  to  the  Virgin^) 

"  If  love  be  pain,  pain,  love,  I  may  not  guess — 

But  this  I  know — 
If  love  be  pain,  then  pain  is  happiness  !  " 

So  sang  the  framer  of  an  antique  rhyme, 

Who  long  ago 
Loved  as  each  dreams  he  loves  for  the  first  time  ! 

For  who  loves  most,  remembers  :  and  who  weeps 

Is  less  unblest, 
That  he  the  memory  of  loving  keeps. 


SOME    THOUGHTS    ABOUT    A    WORD.         33 

It  is  a  twofold  life,  part  joy,  part  pain — 

This  sweet  unrest 
That  we  name  Love,  nor,  naming,  'call  in  vain. 

Where  present  joy  and  absent  longing  meet, 

Ah  !  who  can  tell — 
While  each  without  the  other  were  less  sweet. 

Pale  Memory  treasures  what  warm  lips  may  miss- 
He  loves  not  well 
Who  loves  no  longer  than  the  parting  kiss  ! 

And  what  is  sorrow's  sting — the  pain  of  tears, 

The  burdened  sigh  ? 
'Tis  to  remember  dead  hopes  turned  to  fears. 

The  present  is  not  all  of  love,  nor  yet 

Can  sorrow  die 
Till  those,  at  last,  who  suffer  may  forget ! 

The  poets  dreamed  of  Lethe  in  old  days, 
But  older  still 

Those  wise  word-framers,  singing  without  praise, 
3 


34  SONNET. 

Who,  taught  by  life  what  sages  cannot  teach, 

With  gold  did  fill 
This  casket  in  the  treasure-house  of  speech — 

This  strange  old  word  in  a  forgotten  tongue, 

That  echoed  wide, 
Till  nations  caught  the  scattered  notes  it  rung — 

Scarce  knowing  how  the  great  half-truths  to  blend, 

Till  souls  are  tried, 
And  Pain  and  Memory  in  Love  shall  end  ! 

Afril  ii,  1870. 


SONNET 

On  the  blossoming  of  a  certain  bed  of  white  flowers. 

ON  a  cold  Autumn  day  of  clouds  and  wind, 
With  hearts  too  full  for  tears,  we  clasped  again 
Our  withered  flowers:    the  ground  was  soft  with 
rain, 

And  the  brown  sod  with  grass  roots  intertwined, 


CARISSIMA    ZIA    MIA.  35 

Upturned,  lay  waiting  till  we  should  unbind 

Our   cherished   wreaths,    and   with    the    late-sown 
grain 

Lay  them  to  sleep  beside  our  buried  pain, 
Not  lost,  but  hidden,  though  our  eyes  were  blind  ! 

Together  tenderly  we  laid  them  there, 
Cross,  harp,  and   crown,  and   near,    Hope's   symbol 
sure — 

In  the  dark  earth  the  blossoms  looked  so  fair ; 
Dead  though  we  knew  them,  yet  they  must  endure  ! 
And  when  Spring  came  at  last,  with  quick'ning  breath, 
Our  lilies  rose  again — Life  bloomed  from  Death  ! 

May,  1871. 


CARISSIMA  ZIA   MIA  CON   UN  ANGIOLO- 
DA  CORREGGIO. 

SOMETIMES  the  muse  has  looked  on  me, 
And  smiled  a  little,  giving  grace, 

With  some  short  rhymings,  sweet  or  sad, 
To  do  her  honor  for  a  space. 


36  A    BROOK    FANTASY. 

Some  days  I  dream  that  I  can  sing, 
And  yet  some  notes  I  dare  not  touch, 

With  lips  so  little  used  to  art, 

Lest  where  I  love  I  praise  too  much. 

So  now  I'll  e'en  be  silent,  dear ! 

Some  words  are  sweetest  left  unsaid  ; 
But  if  you  want  the  song  some  day, 

— I've  sent  an  angel,  see  !  instead. 

"  FlRENZE. 

Oct.    12,    1870. 


A  BROOK  FANTASY. 

DID  you  ever  think  how  a  brook  must  feel  ?- 
A  young  little  brook  that  dances  and  shimmers, 
Leaping  and  singing  down  from  the  hills, 
Hand  in  hand  with  a  thousand  rills  ; 
Dreamily  gliding  through  forest  glimmers  ; 
Tossed  into  sparkles,  scattered  in  spray, 
Struggling  now  through  its  rocky  way  ; 
Silent  a  moment  on  edge  of  the  steep, 
Broken  and  torn  in  its  hurrying  leap  ; 


A    BROOK    FANTASY.  37 

Spanned  by  the  rainbow,  blown  by  the  storm, 
Urged  by  a  ceaseless  desire  for  the  ocean — 

Creeping  through  cavernous  glooms  without  form, 
Thundering,  shouting,  in  joyful  commotion, 

Onward  and  downward  through  shadow  and  sun  : — 
Have  you  thought  how  'twould  be  with  the  restless 

one, 

Weary  with  struggling,  weary  no  less, 
Ah  me  !  with  its  own  light-heartedness — 

When  it  came  to  a  place  where  it  could  be  still, 
Where  it  need  not  think  of  to-day  or  to-morrow, 

But  under  the  tranquil  sky  fulfil 
Its  longing  with  rest,  find  peace  for  its  sorrow  ! 

With  sparkle  and  spray, 
With  smiles  and  tears, 

It  fashions  its  way 

Mid  hopes  and  fears, 

Till  the  channel,  broken  by  many  a  stone, 
On  a  sudden  strangely  has  wider  grown, 

And  deep  and  still,  and  quiet  and  cool, 

It  sinks  at  last  in  a  mossy  pool. 
As  clear  as  heaven,  it  drinks  the  sky, 
Yet  dark  with  a  fathomless  mystery. 


38  A    BROOK    FANTASY. 

Ah  !  the  joy  that  has  come  to  its  changeful  lot — 
Ah !  the  peace  that  it  knows,  which  we  know  not ! 
One  little  brooklet  to  hold  the  sun  ! 
A  tiny  mirror,  where  every  one 

Of  the  great  proud  trees  in  the  forest  space 

May  stoop,  and  be  glad  to  see  his  face  ! 
A  lakelet  scarce  fit  for  a  fairy's  boat, 
Yet  deep  in  its  bosom  the  white  clouds  float, 
As  it  were  a  pearl-built  armament. 
When  the  sunset  pitches  his  radiant  tent, 

What  splendors  rain  down  from  under  his  feet  ! 

And  where  the  dark  and  the  twilight  meet, 

What  shimmering  glory  that  grows  into  stars, 

What  planet  stillness  of  Venus  or  Mars, 

Sinks  deep  and  is  hidden  in  one  still  breast, 
And  the  soul  grows  larger  for  holding  God's  rest. 

— Just  to  be  still,  and  wait  for  heaven  ! 

To  open  the  heart,  where  all  is  given — 

And  midst  of  the  struggle,  the  toil,  the  care, 

To  chance  on  the  calmness  unaware — 
Oh  !  it  must  be  happy  to  be  a  brook  ! 

March  27,  1871. 


ILLUSIONS.  39 

DEDICATION 

(not  needing  to  be  written). 

To  my  Mother 

(who  is  asleep), 

Not  in  Memory  only — not  in  Hope  only — 

But  in  Love, 
Whose  eternal  Now  embraces  both. 

Jan.  i,  1871. 


ILLUSIONS. 

LAST  night  they  said  all  dreams  were  false — 
In  my  innermost  heart  I  know  'tis  true, 

And  the  beautiful  endings  we  fashion  out 

In  the  starlight's  sheen  dissolve  with  the  dew. 

I  would  not  tell  them  what  I  thought, 

Though  they  asked  me,  and  deemed  me  wise  as 

they— 
For  the  night  of  visions  is  holier  far 

Than  the  harsh,  hot  gleam  of  the  barren  day. 


4O  L  O  R  E  -  L  E I . 

And  if  to  some  uplifted  hearts, 

In  the  old  tale-telling,  the  angels  came 

Whisp'ring  sweet  words,  might  they  not  come  now, 
Though  they  fade  when  we  give  them  a  mortal  name  ? 

What  though  we  mourn,  we  have  rejoiced  ! 

(Ah,  the  dreams  !  the  dreams  that  never  come  true  !) 
And  Youth  must  still  lift  its  ladder  of  light, 

Though  it  rest  against  naught  but  the  sky's  thin  blue  ! 

Perhaps  the  angels  wait  somewhere, 

That  fled  so  fast  at  the  break  of  the  day — 

Perhaps  they  may  give  us  their  blessing  yet — 
I  say  not  they  will,  but  they  may,  they  may  ! 

Oct.  a?,  1869. 


LORE-LEI. 

AND  do  ye  mock  at  me  ?  ye  nymphs  with  clear  trans- 
parent eyes, 

Round  which  fire  flickers  fitfully,  within  as  cold 
As  midnight  seas,  deep,  treacherous,  beautiful, 
Lit  up  with  phosphorescent  gleams  of  fleeting  flaming 
gold! 


LORE-LEI.  41 

It  is  not  that  I  fear  you  in  your  scorn — those  curling 

lips, 

And  the  white  radiance  of  the  deathly  smile  ye  bear, 
Are  terrible,  yet  I  can  scorn  you,  while  ye  gaze, 
And  mock  me  that  I  lost  the  crown  that  ye  could 
never  wear ! 

I  thrust  it  from  me  !     Nay,  I  would  not  keep  my  hu- 
man soul 

With  its  crushed  power  of  loving — trembling  under- 
neath 
The  breath  of  sweetest  memories,  shrivelled,  scathed 

in  pain, 

On  the  hot  iron  cross  changed  love  in  penance  chose 
to  wreathe  ! 

I  could  not  be  as  meek  as  one  frail   maiden  that  I 

knew 

So  long  ago — life  has  been  very  long  since  then — 
Who  faded  from  the  world  when   love  and  light 

went  out, 

And  ever  since  has  lived  a  tender  thought  in  hearts 
of  men. 


42  LORE-LEI. 

I  did  not  love  so  :  nor  as  she  died  had  I  power  to  die, 
But  needs  must   live  —  the   sweetness  in  my  own 

heart  turned 
To  bitterness  —  must  crush  from  other  hearts  the 

fragrance  out 

To  make  one  draught  of  bitter  sweet  to  cool  my  lips 
that  burned. 

From  loving  one  too  much  at  last  I  learned  the  way 

to  hate, 
And,    craving    your    malignant   beauty,    gave    my 

soul, 
That,  naught  of  spirit  mingling  with  the  passionate 

blood, 

I    might    burn    men   to   ashes   with   a   love   beyond 
control. 

Why  do  ye  mock  me,  pointing  with  white,  tossing, 

shadowy  arms, 
From  your  foam-girdled  seats  upon  the  gray  harsh 

shore  ? 

Ye  cannot  envy  me  the  beauty  that  ye  gave, 
Dark  with  the  shadow  of  the  human  woe  that  went 
before  ? 


MOON-PHASES.  43 

Yet  know,  that  while  I  died  to  heaven  to  save  earth's 

span  of  pain, 

You,  that  have  never  suffered,  I  can  dare  despise — 
The  crown  I  wore,  and  lost,  has  scarred  my  brow 

too  deep, 

Not  to  have  left  the  memory  of  its  radiance  in  my 
eyes  ! 

Cold  lips,  deceiving  with  mysterious  smiles,  so  slow, 

so  sweet — 

Cold  voices,  merciless  in  your  perfection,  tuned 
To  break  the  heart  with  longing — cold  soft  hands 

that  clasp 
Cold  arms  that  cling  like  winding  snakes,  embracing 

but  to  wound — 
I  am  your  sister 

(Unfinished.) 
Feb.,  1870. 


MOON-PHASES 

MOST  like  a  thread  dropped  from  a  golden  curl, 
On  the  warm  breast  of  evening  lies  the  moon — 

The  tender  crescent  sinking  with  the  sun. 
Night  after  night  the  twilight's  mystic  rune 


44  MOON-PHASES. 

Grows  clearer,  written  in  the  deep'ning  stars. 

Eve  after  eve  the  tossing  golden  spray 
From  waves  of  sunset  fills  the  pearly  shell 

Left  on  the  shore  of  heaven  by  ebbing  Day. 

— With  all  sweet  names  to  greet  thee  are  we  fain, 
Beautiful  with  young  beauty,  past  compare  ! 

Men  gaze  on  thee  as  men  look  on  young  Love, 
And  smile  and  say — Tis  verily  most  fair  ! 

Ah,  lovely  promise  of  the  midnight's  crown  ! 

Thou  mayst  not  linger — Time,  all-ripening  One, 

To  full-orbed  passion  heaps  thy  flame-rimmed  vase- 
Love's  symbol,  filled  full  with  the  vanished  sun  ! 

The  crescent  rounds  into  the  perfect  sphere, 
And  rains  down  glory  thro'  the  flooded  skies  ; 

Earth  is  transfigured,  heaven  itself  more  bright, 
But  thou — too  lovely  for  our  dazzled  eyes  ! 

'Tis  what  thou  shinest  on,  not  thee,  we  praise — 
Thy  veiling  radiance  is  enough  for  thee  ! 

Lonely  in  brightness,  quenching  the  faint  stars, 
Supreme  in  thine  unshadowed  majesty. 


HONEYSUCKLE-BREATH.  45 

It  is  not  that  thou  art  less  beautiful, 

But  Earth  more  glorious — lake  and  grove  and  mount 
Are  part  of  thee — thou  givest  all,  life,  light — 

Love's  type,  self-radiant,  self-hidden  fount ! 

August  2,  1870. 


HONEYSUCKLE-BREATH. 

DOES  it  come  the  first  time  with  the  warm  gold  moon, 
Or  in  dreams  on  a  drowsy  afternoon 
When  May  is  melting  away  into  June, 

And  the  blossom-trees  have  done  snowing  ? 

'Tis  the  spirit  of  summer  on  flying  feet, 

'Tis  a  nameless  Something,  namelessly  sweet, 

A  voiceless  music  the  birds  repeat 

As  they  soar  and  sing — without  knowing  ! 

'Tis  a  vision  that  vanished  and  left  no  trace, 
'Tis  a  kiss  without  lips — a  shadowy  face 
That  Fancy  caught  smiling — an  empty  space, 
Where  we  stretch  fond  arms  out  for  clasping  ! 


46  MY    STUDIO    KEY. 

And  I  know  it  is  mine  by  the  love  alone, 
'Tis  a  promise — no  more — yet  'tis  my  own, 
Fair  beyond  sight,  but  I  make  no  moan — 
Can  Life's  gifts  be  sweet  as  Youth's  asking  ? 

In  the  glimmering  night,  'neath  the  starlight  sheen, 
With  a  rustle  of  fairy  wings,  I  ween, 
It  hovers  the  stars  and  the  dark  between, 
Till  it  findeth  my  window  lonely. 

Creeping  in  through  the  gloom  with  the  silent  dew, 
It  brings  the  old  joy  that  is  always  new — 
Mine  !  mine  by  that  token — and  yet  to  you 
It  may  be  'twas  a  perfume  only  ! 

June,  1870. 


MY  STUDIO  KEY. 

(University  Building.) 

You  poor,  dear  little,  ugly  thing — 
How  tenderly  I  put  you  by  ! 

'Tis  but  a  homely  theme  to  sing — 
I  can  but  smile,  and  yet  I  sigh  ! 


MYSTUDIOKEY.  47 

This  little  twisted  bit  of  brass 

I  hide  away,  lest  wise  eyes  see, 
Is  poetry  now,  because,  alas  ! 

It  wears  the  charm  of  Memory — 

It  tells  of  hours  in  restless  days, 

Cool,  calm  amid  the  city's  din — 
Of  open  paths  down  shady  ways, 

Where  who  "  loved  much  "  might  enter  in. 

It  set  the  magic  portals  wide 

Through  which,  a  child,  I  looked  and  yearned  — 
Art  smiled,  and  called  me  to  her  side, 

And  touched  my  brow  with  lips  that  burned  ! 

And  by  the  fiery  chrism  sealed, 

I  am  her  own,  though  worlds  should  part — 
The  beauty  has  been  once  revealed, 

It  cannot  die,  while  lives  my  heart ! 

When  shall  I  worship  as  I  would  ? 

Is  life  too  short  for  what  we  dream  ? 
Ay  ! — and  the  humblest  work  is  good, 

Judged  by  the  thing  we  are,  not  seem  ! 


48  MY    STUDIO    KEY". 

The  old,  sweet  thoughts  !  their  echo  falls 

Down  the  gray  aisles,  remembered  well — 

Past  the  blank  doors,  through  silent  halls, 
The  sweet  heart-murmurs  sink  and  swell. 

Ah  !  life  has  many  a  closed  door 

We  pass  unheeding,  dare  not  ope  : — 

"  Faint  light !  "  we  say,  and  long  for  more — 
Faint  heart  it  is,  that  lacketh  Hope. 

Tiny  magician,  teach  me  still ! 

My  path  grew  bright  at  thy  meek  touch. 
One  unbarred  door  dim  life  could  fill 

With  happiness  almost  too  much  ! 

Ah,  be  the  lowly  lesson  mine  ! 

— 'Tis  naught  to  others,  much  to  me — 
"  Patient  in  hope,"  those  words  divine 
Have  turned  to  gold  my  studio  key  ! 

FORT  WASHINGTON,  May  2,  1870. 


DEDICATION    TO"  RAINBOW    SONGS."     49 

DEDICATION    TO 

"RAINBOW  SONGS." 

(Mamma's  Birthday,  September  26,   1869.) 

O  MOTHER-LOVE  !  purer  than  all  love  else, 
Like  the  white  light  of  heaven,  passionless, 

Yet  blending,  by  a  sympathy  divine, 
The  wayward  colors  into  perfectness. 

To  thee  is  nothing  hopeless — naught  is  dark — 
The  poet's  rapture,  careless  of  its  pain  ; 

The  maiden's  reverie,  too  sweet,  too  short ; 
The  thirst  for  glory,  and  death's  high  disdain  ; 

The  lover's  fervor,  burnt-out  with  short  life  ; 

The  saint's  parched  longing  in  earth's  waste  for 

peace  ; 
E'en  the  self-love  thou  canst  but  pity,  find 

In  thee  their  passion  ended — in  thee  cease 

Each  one  to  struggle  for  a  separate  aim, 
And  thro'  thy  perfect  self-forgetfulness, 

Tuning  all  other  loves  to  harmony, 

Learn  that  the  end  of  living  is  to  bless ! 


5O     DEDICATION    TO    "RAINBOW    SONGS." 

When  to  the  dazzle  of  the  world  I  woke, 

Heaven's  light  came  to  me  softened  in  thy  smile  ! 

Thine  eyes  were  stars,  guiding  my  soul  aright 
Through  earth's  dark  paths,  that  would  my  feet 
beguile. 

Through  thee  I  learned  to  know  the  higher  Love 
Of  which  thou  art  the  type,  that  ruling  serves, 

Shining,  as  doth  the  sun,  on  all  alike, 

Loving  who  needs  most,  not  who  most  deserves  ! 

Blending  the  discord  of  my  changing  moods, 
Thro'  darkness  and  thro'  light  I  feel  thy  power  ; 

Thou  hast  a  charm  for  sorrow,  as  the  sun 

Weaves  rainbows  on  the  dark  woof  of  the  shower. 

To  thee  I  bring  this  faint-hued  tracery, 
By  fancy's  loving  fingers  feebly  wrought. 

Smile  on  this  too,  and  in  thine  own  heart  find 
What  deeper  beauty  underlies  my  thought  ! 

Sept.  23,  1869,  DOBBS  FKREV. 


RAINBOW    SONGS.  5l 

RAINBOW  SONGS 

Red.— I. 
THE    WARRIOR. 

MY  love  has  sent  me  from  the  wars — 
My  love  he  is  a  gallant  knight  ! — 

Token  of  one  more  shivered  lance, 
A  scarlet  pennon,  won  in  fight. 

The  vivid  scarlet,  how  it  burns 
In  the  cool  shadows  of  the  room  ! 

I  hear  the  clang  of  hurtling  arms, 
I  see  the  warrior's  streaming  plume  ! 

My  true  love  spurs  him  through  the  press — 
He  strikes  for  fame,  he  strikes  for  me  ! 

His  gallant  charger  bears  him  well — 
A  noble  steed,  more  noble  he  ! 

The  dazzle  blinds  my  eyes  with  tears — 

Away  !  these  drops  but  shame  my  knight ! 

Is  it  not  strange  this  idle  rag 

Should  bring  such  visions  to  my  sight  ? 


52  RAINBOW    SONGS. 

'Twas  told  me  of  a  blind  old  man, 
A  minstrel  he,  to  whom  in  song 

All  Beauty  came,  Light's  crystal  gates 
Being  barred  to  him  Life's  journey  long — 

That  he  translated  into  sound 
All  color,  touching  it.     The  Red 

Thrilled  thro'  his  pulses  in  the  dark. 

"  Tis  the  shrill  Trumpet's  voice,"  he  said  ! 

— Here  'tis  so  silent  while  I  dream, 
So  lonely  while  his  voice  I  wait — 

And  yet  I  hear  the  battle's  din — 
Shrinking,  I  share  the  battle's  fate. 

Ah,  how  he  clasped  me  for  farewell, 

What  brave  words  whispered  in  my  ear  ! 

I  hardly  trembled  then,  the  flush 

That  tinged  my  cheek  was  not  from  fear. 

I  sped  him  on  his  high  emprise, 
And  now  I  sit  and  watt — not  weep  ! 

No,  no  !  he  gave  me  all  his  love — 
I  have  his  honor,  too,  to  keep  ! 


RAINBOW    SONGS.  53 

I  tied  my  favor  on  his  helm — 

What  though  the  scarlet  scarf  be  stained 
As  this  he  sends,  lest  I  forget 

Through  what  hard  ways  is  glory  gained  ! 

I  live  for  him,  he  die's  for  me — 

I  share  his  love,  I  share  his  fame. 
Shall  I  not  bear  a  hero  heart — 

Worthy  to  wear  a  hero's  name  ? 

1869. 


RAINBOW  SONGS. 
Red.— II. 

THE  WARRIOR. 

MY  love,  my  life,  my  own  ! 
Press  thy  red  lips  against  my  cheek — 
Kiss  back  the  color — hasten,  Sweet ! 

Thy  love,  not  life,  I  seek. 


54  RAINBOW    SONGS. 

But  this  once  more  my  own  ! 
Breathe  into  mine  thy  living  breath — 
Close,  close — ah  !  Life  is  all  too  sweet, 

But  glory  comes  with  death. 

Ay,  'twas  thy  scarlet  scarf 
They  used  to  stanch  the  wound  with— dear ! 
Thou  dost  not  care  I  stained  it  so  ? 

— My  love,  my  pride,  my  peer  ! 

Thro'  tears  thy  queenly  smile  ! 
And  art  thou  proud  I  loved  thee,  Sweet  ? 
The  laurels  that  I  died  to  win, 

Are  honored  at  thy  feet ! 

Ah,  Death  !  this  moment  more — 
Come,  Love,  one  silent,  long,  last  kiss  ! 
My  darling,  is  the  victor's  meed 

In  heaven  more  sweet  than  this  ? 

This  rapture  is  my  last — 
The  earth  has  naught  beyond  to  give  : 
While  Glory  melts  in.  Love's  pure  flame, 

Dying,  I  only  live  ! 

SAND'S  POINT,  L.  1.,-SV/V.  n   1869. 


RAINBOW    SONGS.  55 

RAINBOW  SONGS. 

Yellow. 

THE   MISER. 

THE  beautiful  color  !  the  color  of  gold  ! 
How  it  sparkles  and  burns  in  the  piled  up  dust  ! 
The  poets  !  they  know  not,  they  never  have  told 
Of  the  fadeless  color,  the  color  of  gold — 
Of  my  god,  in  whom  I  trust ! 

Deep  down  in  the  earth  it  winds  and  creeps — 

In  her  sluggish  old  veins  'tis  the  warm  rich  blood — 

The  old  mother-monster  !  how  soundly  she  sleeps  ! 

Come  !  nearest  her  heart,  where  the  strong  life  leaps — 

We  drink,  we  bathe  in  the  flood  ! 


Ah,  the  far-off  days  !  was  I  ever  a  child  ? 
— My  brain  is  so  dark,  and  my  heart  has  grown  cold. 
Those  fields,  where  the  golden-eyed  buttercups  smiled 
Lo'ng  ago — did  I  love  them  with  heart  undefiled  ? 
Did  I  seek  the  flowers  for  the  gold  ? 


*6  RAINBOW    SONGS. 

Be  still !  O  thou  traitor  Remorse,  at  my  heart, 
Whining  without  in  the  dark  at  the  door — 
I  know  thee,  the  beggar  and  thief  that  thou  art, 
Lying  low  at  my  threshold — I  bid  thee  depart ! 
Thou  shalt  dog  my  footsteps  no  more. 

Wilt  thou  bring  me  the  faded  flowers  of  my  youth — 
With  hands  full  of  dead  leaves,  and  lips  of  lies — 
For  these  shall  I  yield  thee  my  treasure,  in  sooth  ? 
Are  the  buttercup's  petals  pure  gold — say  truth  ! 
Wilt  thou  coin  me  the  daisy's  eyes  ? 

I  hate  them  !  the  smiling  flowers  in  the  sun, 
And  the  yellow   smooth  rays  that  they  feed  on  at 

noon— 

'Tis  the  hard  cold  gold  I  will  have,  or  none  ! 
Come,  pluck  me  the  stars  down,  one  by  one, 

Plant  me  the  pale  rich  moon  ! 

*  *  *  .       *  *  * 

Ah  !  the  mystical  seed,  it  has  grown,  it  has  spread ! 
— But  the  sharp  star-points  they  are  piercing  my  brow, 
And  the  rosy  home-faces  grow  livid  and  dead 
In  the  terrible  color  the  fire-blossoms  shed — 
I  am  reaping  my  harvest  in  now  ! 


RAINBOW    SONGS.  57 

The  horrible  color — the  color  of  flame  ! 
The  hot  sun  has  o'erflowed  from  his  broken  urn — 
O  thou  pitiless  sky  !  wilt  thou  show  me  my  shame  ? 
While  the  cursed  gold  clings  to  my  fingers  like  flame—- 
And glitters  only  to  burn  ! 

(Begun  at  Turin— finished  at  home— CATSKILL,  Aug.,  1869.) 


RAINBOW  SONGS. 
Green. 

THE   MAIDEN. 

THE  Spring  has  come,  with  wealth  of  downy  buds, 
And  promise  of  sweet  Summer  in  her  breath  ; 

The  world  wakes  dreamily,  at  bright  Hope's  touch. 
From  the  pale  sleep  forgetful  men  call  death. 

The  faint  sun  shines  down  thro'  the  flickering  green, 
Here  in  the  shadows,  where  I  love  to  sit ; 

The  young  leaves  flutter,  and  the  breezes  blow — 
Ah  !  Life  is  sweet,  and  Hope  is  half  of  it ! 


$8  RAINBOW    SONGS. 

Dim,  lovely  fancies,  how  they  come  and  go — 
Betwixt  the  sunshine  and  the  April  rain  ! 

— What  is  it  that  has  crept  into  my  heart, 
This  vague  unrest,  that  is  not  wholly  pain  ? 

I  shun  the  dazzle  of  the  smiling  sun, 

Half  sad — my  sadness  half  a  strange  delight —  ' 
Hope's  flickering  pinions  fan  me  like  warm  breath — 

I  would  not  be  more  happy,  if  I  might ! 

Down  the  dim  alleys  of  the  whispering  wood, 
Heard  I  the  rustle  of  approaching  feet  ? 

Ah,  Love  !  the  summer  is  so  near  : — not  yet ! 
Not  yet  the  end — the  promise  is  so  sweet ! 

A  little  longer  in  the  veiled  light, 

In  this  sweet  lingering  doubt  'twixt  hope  and  fear ! 
Ah  !  might  I  wait  thee,  Love,  forever  thus, 

'Mid  these  first  shadows  of  the  early  year  ! 

Sej,t.  3,  1869. 


RAINBOW    SONGS.  59 

RAINBOW  SONGS. 

Blue. 

THE   SAINT. 

HOT  noon  amid  the  barren  sands 
In  Egypt's  silent  waste  of  sepulchres — 
Alone,  between  the  stark  cliffs  and  the  sun — 
In  this  parched  air  no  breath  of  being  stirs  ! 

Beneath,  the  river  flows,  and  burns — 
A  sheet  of  white-hot  gold — while  wearily 
I  turn  mine  eyes  from  the  dead  sultry  glare 
Toward  the  cool  azure  splendors  of  the  sky. 

So  pure  !  so  far  !  I  fain  would  soar 
In  the  blue  depths  of  that  immensity  ! 
I  thirst,  I  languish,  till  my  spirit  sinks 
Wrapped  in  the  endless  calm  of  that  still  sea. 

Until  life's  fever  frets  no  more — 
Until  my  sin-stained  soul  is  washen  clean, 
In  that  great  flood  that  pours  around  the  Throne, 
And  passion  fades  in  that  pure  light  serene. 


6O  RAINBOW    SONGS. 

As  in  that  holy  perfect  blue, 
The  garish  colors  of  the  common  day 
Dissolve  their  passionate  part,  and  lose  themselves 
In  the  one  glory  cannot  pass  away — 

So  might  I  utterly  forget 
This  weary  earth,  and  live  in  Him  alone, 
Whom  through  the  open  sky  the  prophet  saw 
"  In  likeness  like  unto  a  sapp> hire- stone  !  " 

Might  I  but  draw  the  vision  down, 
With  mine  own  eyes,  that  look,  and  long,  and  wait ! 
— It  floats,  it  fades,  before  my  aching  sense — 
Heaven  is  too  deep,  the  glory  is  too  great ! 

I  am  not  worthy,  Lord — I  shrink  ! 
The  veiling  splendors  of  the  lower  Day 
Would  hide  Thee  from  me — nay,  I  gaze  no  more ; 
Lips  low,  eyes  darkened  in  the  dust,  I  pray — 

Until  the  longed-for  Shadow  comes, 
Till  Death  throws  wide  the  sunset's  golden  bars — 
One  more  earth-flush  !  one  passion  more  !  and  then — 
Cool  night,  heaven's  calm  eternity  of  stars  ! 

Sept.  25,  1869. 


RAINBOW    SONGS.  6l 

RAINBOW  SONGS. 
Purple. 

THE   POET. 

PURPLE,  the  passionate  color  ! 

Purple,  the  color  of  pain  ! 
I  clothe  myself  in  the  rapture — 

I  count  the  suffering  gain  ! 

The  sea  lies  gleaming  before  me, 

Pale  in  the  smile  of  the  sun — 
No  shadow — all  golden  and  azure — 

The  joy  of  the  Day  has  begun  ! 

Throbbing  and  yearning  forever, 
With  longing  unsatisfied,  sweet — 

Flushed  with  the  pain  and  the  rapture, 
Warm  at  the  sun-god's  feet — 

In  the  glow  and  gloom  of  the  evening 
The  glory  is  reached — and  o'er-past ; 

Joy's  rose-bloom  has  ripened  to  purple — 
'Twill  fade,  but  the  stars  shine  at  last ! 


62  THE    RIVER    OF    THE    PAST. 

Purple,  the  passionate  color  ! 

Robing  the  martyr,  the  king — 
Regal  in  joy  and  in  anguish, 

Life's  blossom,  with  ah  !  its  sting- 
Give  me  the  sovereign  color — 

I'll  suffer,  that  I  may  reign  ! 
The  poet's  moment  of  rapture 

Is  worth  the  poet's  pain  ! 

ITALY,  CORNICE  ROAD,  Jan.  8,  1869. 


THE  RIVER  OF  THE  PAST. 

ON  the  broad  and  slumbering  river — 
Ancient,  mystery-brooding  Nile — 

Eating  the  forgetful  lotus, 
Dream  we  all  the  while — 
Floating  up  the  stream. 

All  the  present  sleeps  behind  us, 
Buried  'neath  the  tranquil  flood  , 

While  the  rippling,  whispering  waters 
Cool  the  young  warm  blood, 
Float  we  up  the  stream. 


THE    RIVER    OF    THE    PAST.  63 

Lethe-like,  it  folds  around  us, 

Wave  on  wave,  the  river  dim, 
While,  beneath  our  half-closed  eyelids, 

Visions  sink  and  swim, — 
Floating  up  the  stream. 

Sailing  in  a  world  of  shadows, 

Leaving  Life  and  Care  behind, 
Toward  the  dead  Past's  mighty  kingdom 

Gliding  with  the  wind, 
Float  we  up  the  stream. 

Noontide  floods  the  river  slowly, 

From  his  brimming  golden  urn, 
'Neath  Cleopatra's  silken  awnings 

Torrid  glances  burn — 
Floating  up  the  stream. 

And  the  Old  World  grows  in  splendor, 

Nearer  with  the  sinking  sun, 
As  we  pass  the  buried  cities — 

Pass  them  one  by  one — 
Floating  up  the  stream. 


64  THE    RIVER    OF    THE    PAST. 

In  the  sudden  tropic  twilight, 
Statue-like  against  the  gold, 

Stand  the  palm-trees,  dark  and  lonely/ 
Monuments  of  old — 
Floating  up  the  stream. 

Upward  toward  the  solemn  temples, 
Carved  by  dust,  in  living  stone, 

Past  Antiquity's  dread  treasures, 

Toward  the  dim  Unknown, 

Float  we  up  the  stream. 

'Neath  the  starlight's  dreamy  glory — 
Flooding  heaven's  eternal  span  — 

"  Sons  of  God  "  that  sang  together 
At  the  birth  of  man, — 
Float  we  up  the  stream. 

'Tis  the  mighty  tide  of  ages, 

Flowing  on  while  Time  shall  last, 

And  we  seek  its  hidden  sources 
In  the  mystic  Past — 
Floating  up  the  stream  ! 

OH  THE  NILE,  Feb.  15,  1869. 


THE    COLOSSI.  65 


THE  COLOSSI. 

GRIM  monarchs  of  the  silent  plain, 

Seated  in  motionless,  sublime  repose, 
With  faces  turned  forever  toward  the  dawn, 

With  eyes  that  sleep  not,  lips  that  ne'er  unclose — 

While  kingdoms  crumble  round  their  thrones, 
In  lonely  state  they  keep  their  ancient  seat ; 

Time's  ocean  ebbs  and  flows,  with  drifting  sands, 
Like  the  mysterious  River  at  their  feet. 

The  blithe  birds  sing  their  morning  song 

Where  Memnon's  voice  once  rose  to  greet  the  sun  ; 

The  shadows  lengthen  nightly  toward  the  west, 
The  stars  shine  down,  the  days  pass  one  by  one. 

Still  side  by  side  they  sit,  with  hands 

Laid  idly  on  their  mighty  knees  of  stone — 
What  thoughts  pass  through  their  dim  brains,  silent 

thus, 

Companions,  yet  through  centuries  alone  ? 
s 


66  THE    COLOSSI. 

Mourn  they  their  kingdom's  vanished  might, 
Their  broken  altars,  heaped  with  dust  of  death  ? 

Or  search  they  the  dread  future  with  blank  eyes, — 
Kings,  priests,  and  gods  of  a  forgotten  faith  ? 

* 

Rock-hewn,  they  last  while  time  shall  last — 
The  hills  shall  leave  their  seats  as  soon  as  they ; 

But  there  is  One  who  brooks  no  rival  thrones, 
And  breaks  all  sceptres  at  the  last  great  Day. 

Mid  ruins  of  a  passing  world, 

To  their  slow  height  those  giant  forms  shall  rise  ; 
With  solemn  steps  they  move  to  meet  their  doom, 

From  the  dread  Presence  passing  with  veiled  eyes, 

Beneath  the  gate  of  an  eternal  Death 

They  enter,  and  are  lost  among  the  shades — 

In  the  dim  region  of  perpetual  sighs, 

Where  earthly  glory,  earthly  greatness,  fades. 

THEBES,  Feb.  23,  1869. 


LINES.  67 

LINES 

Written  on  approaching  Florence,  April  28,  1869. 

FLORENCE  !  the  name  sounds  sweetly  to  my  ear — 
Familiar  and  yet  strange  ;  on  dear  home  lips 
'Tis  music,  and  from  Tuscan  tongues  it  slips 

Like  dropping  honey,  syllabled  and  cleat. 

My  name,  yet  not  my  name  ! — Myself  forgot, 

Hither  I  turn  my  eager  steps,  to  seek 

The  air  those  great  ones  breathed,  whom  I,  though 

weak, 
May  follow  worshipping,  attaining  not ! 

What  is  there  home-like  in  the  flower-girt  place  ? 
Why  smiles  the  Arno,  while  th'  encircling  hills 
Enwrap  me  closer,  and  my  spirit  thrills 

With  a  vague  joy  whose  springs  I  cannot  trace  ? 

Oft  have  I  mused  on  the  old  glorious  time, 

When  painters  drew  with  pencils  dipped  in  flame ; 
When  Genius  reigned,  and  tyrants  writhed  in  shame 

'Neath  Dante's  twisted  scourge  of  threefold  rhyme. 


68  LINES. 

And,  meditating  thus,  while  reverence  grew 
To  love,  and  love  to  self-forgetfulness, 
While  Fancy  wandered,  may  my  steps  no  less 

Have  followed,  dreaming,  farther  than  I  knew  ? 

And  yet — not  so.     This  is  no  foreign  air, 

That  once  I  breathed,  then  left,  again  to  roam  ! 
Thy  fragrant  breezes  whisper,  "  This  is  home  " — 

My  namesake  city,  Florence,  called  the  Fair  !  " 

— Sometimes  in  music  comes  a  sudden  strain, 
'Mid  unfamiliar  melodies  most  sweet  ; — 
The  heart  leaps  forth  the  welcome  tones  to  greet, 

But  its  past  echo  Memory  seeks  in  vain. 

New,  and  yet  old,  it  lingers  on  the  mind 
As  with  remembered  sweetness,  and  it  fills 
The  soul  with  longing  for  the  heavenly  hills, 

And  angel  harmonies  it  left  behind. 

Perchance  'twas  wafted  o'er  the  ocean  dim 
That  lies  beyond  the  mystery  of  birth  ;  . 
And  the  young  spirit,  'mid  the  songs  of  earth, 

Could  not  forget  the  seraph's  cradle  hymn  ! 


LINES.  69 

— Whate'er  the  heart  is  tuned  to  is  its  own, 
And  loving,  we  claim  kinship.     So  I  love, 
O  land !  whose  distant  glories  thus  could  move 

My  heart  until,  unseen,  I  deemed  thee  known  ! 

In  other  climes  thy  skies  have  on  me  smiled — 
The  Beautiful  to  me  has  borne  thy  name  ; 
O  city  of  my  heart,  thy  love  I  claim — 

I  am  not  worthy,  but  I  am  thy  child  ! 


LINES 

Written  between  Venice  and  Milan,  after  seeing  Lake  Garda  and  the 
distant  Alps. 

VENICE  lay  dreaming  in  the  morning  light, 
Her  fairy  towers  reflected  in  the  wave  ; 
As  the  dim  islands  faded  from  our  sight, 
One  backward  look  we  gave  — 

Then  on  !  where  duty  calls,  and  smiling  home 
Her  arms  spreads  forth  the  errant  ones  to  greet ! 
Dear  faces  rise  beyond  the  ocean  foam, 
And  rest  and  peace  are  sweet. 


7O  LINES. 

But  I  must  leave  thee,  Italy  !  To-day 
Thou  didst  put  on  thy  brightest  smiles  for  me — 
Mountain,  and  lake,  and  vine-clad  valley  lay 
Wrapped  in  "an  azure  sea  ; 

While,  floating  in  the  magic  atmosphere, 
Like  a  mirage  I  saw  thy  beauty  rise — 
And  loveliest  as  the  parting  hour  drew  near, 
Thou  didst  enchant  mine  eyes  ! 

Thus  in  my  heart  I  bear  thee,  stamped  in  light, 
Thine  image  leaves  me  not,  where'er  I  go — 
The  shimmering  lake,  the  mountains, height  o'er  height, 
Heaven-crowned  with  radiant  snow. 

Those  Alps  !  whose  secrets  I  shall  never  see, 
In  whose  blue  depths  such  hidden  glories  lie — 
Like  the  calm  summits  of  futurity, 
They  rise  agarinst  the  sky  ! 

On  the  horizon  of  my  thought  they  stand — 
A  barrier,  yet  an  inspiration  too  ! 
Beyond  those  heights  there  lies  a  lovelier  land 
Than  poet  ever  drew. 


HANDEL'S    HARPSICHORD. 

Beyond — ah  yes  !  I  linger  on  the  word — 
Whate'er  of  earthly  happiness  we  miss, 
Still  is  the  yearning  soul  more  deeply  stirred 
By  hopes  of 'future  bliss  ! 

I  seek  not  to  attain — I  but  aspire  ! 
I  yearn  for  joy  no  fleeting  moment  gives — 
The  soul  grows  great  through  infinite  desire, 
In  what  it  longs  for,  lives  ! 

May  12,  1869. 


HANDEL'S    HARPSICHORD 

(And  an  inscription  read  backwards). 

SOUTH  KENSINGTON  MUSEUM,  LONDON. 

WHENCE  come  these  vague  emotions  of  the  soul, 
Like  the  invisible  airs  the  wind-harp  waking — 

From  hovering  mystery  of  near  angels'  wings, 
Perchance  their  tremulous  faint  impulse  taking  ? 

I  know  not  why,  but  in  this  rich  Old  World, 
Wandering  'mid  relics  of  a  former  splendor, 

Naught  moves  me  as  these  broken  instruments — 
No  more  to  thrill  with  accents  sad  or  tender ! 


72  HANDEL'S    HARPSICHORD. 

Life  throbbed  beneath  those  silken  draperies, 
That  hang  so  near,  scarce  faded  in  their  glory  ; 

Valor  lent  lustre  to  those  arms  of  steel, 
This  gold,  these  gems,  have  their  unwritten  story. 

But  o'er  these  strings,  now  dumb,  the  poet  mused, 
In  joy's  pure  stream  was  their  first  utterance  chris- 
tened ; 

The  lover's  sorrows  sighed  among  the  chords, 
While  with  bent  head,  sweet-eyed,  the  lady  listened  ! 

So  dreamily  I  pondered,  as  to-day, 

By  melancholy's  nameless  sadness  smitten, 

Down  the  long-vistaed  galleries  I  saw 

Sic  transit  gloria  mundi,  quaintly  written, 

On  the  old  casing  of  a  harpsichord, 

Grown    brown    with   age,  the  delicate   strings   all 

broken, 
Wreathed  in  fantastic  tracery  ran  the  words  : — 

Two  centuries  ago  my  thought  was  spoken  ! 

"  Thus  passes  all  the  glory  of  this  world — 

I  stood  and  gazed,  sad,  but  not  heavy-hearted, 

For  something  whispered,  "  Are  these  strings  all  dead, 
Because  the  soul  that  stirred  them  has  departed  ?  " 


HANDEL'S    HARPSICHORD.  73 

And  yet — the  hand  is  dust  that  touched  these  keys, 
The  spirit  is  dissolved  in  far-off  spaces  ; 

The  ears  that  hearkened  then,  hear  other  sounds, 
Another  rapture  fills  the  listening  faces  ! 

"  Tis  past,  all  past !  "  I  said,  and  speaking  paused — 
For  while  my  sad  sweet  mood  I  fain  would  cherish, 

Musica  donum  Dei,  sweeter  still, 

1  read,  and  knew  God's  gifts  can  never  perish  ! 

One  word  remained  at  last  to  crown  my  thought — 
A  name  so  high  that  praise  is  desecration — 

The  name  of  one  whose  mortal  fingers  touched 

These  chords,  and  in  their  touch  gave  consecration. 

While  HandeFs  spirit  lives  in  glorious  sound, 
Can  I  deem  Music  dead,  or  dream  of  weeping  ? 

Ah  no  !  it  waits  but  for  the  Master's  voice — 
The  Beautiful  dies  not,  'tis  only  sleeping  ! 

June  14,  1869. 


74  SONG. 


II 


SONG. 


How  pleasant  it  is  that  always 

There's  somebody  older  than  you— 

Some  one  to  pet  and  caress  you, 
Some  one  to  scold  you  too ! 

Some  one  to  call  you  a  baby, 

To  laugh  at  you  when  you're  wise  ; 

Some  one  to  care  when  you're  sorry, 
To  kiss  the  tears  from  your  eyes. 

When  life  has  begun  to  be  weary, 
And  youth  to  melt  like  the  dew, 

To  know,  like  the  little  children, 
Somebody's  older  than  you. 

The  path  cannot  be  so  lonely, 
For  some  one  has  trod  it  before  ; 

The  golden  gates  are  the  nearer, 
That  some  one  stands  at  the  door  ! 


SONG.  75 

— I  can  think  of  nothing  sadder 
Than  to  feel,  when  days  are  few, 

There's  nobody  left  to  lean  on, 
Nobody  older  than  you  ! 

The  younger  ones  may  be  tender 

To  the  feeble  steps  and  slow ; 
But  they  can't  talk  the  old  times  over — 

Alas  !  how  should  they  know  ! 

'Tis  a  romance  to  them — a  wonder 

You  were  ever  a  child  at  play  ; 
But  the  dear  ones  waiting  in  heaven 

Know  it  is  all  as  you  say. 

I  know  that  the  great  All-Father 
Loves  us  and  the  little  ones  too  ; 

Keep  only  child-like  hearted — 
Heaven  is  older  than  you  ! 


Seft.  24,  1869,  DOBBS  FERRY. 


<>  SPENSER. 

SPENSER. 

THE  POET'S   POET. 

"WHY  do  I  love  this  Spenser  so  ?  " 

My  sweet  child-poet,  crooning  dreamy  rhymes, 
Like  the  bees'  song,  mid  beds  of  violets  low, 
Far  from  the  echo  of  the  stormy  times  ! 

Ask  rather  why  faint-smiling  Spring 

Scatters  the  soul  of  gladness  everywhere  ; 

Ask  rather  of  the  birds  why  they  should  sing 
At  morning,  from  the  pure  joy  of  the  air  ! 

Why  do  wood-lilies  grow  in  May  ? 

Why  bloom  the  roses  sweeter  in  the  sun  ? 
What  is  the  happiness  of  living — say  ! 

Come,  answer  me  my  questions,  every  one — 

And  I  will  tell  you  why  at  noon, 

Drinking  the  sky  in  through  the  flickering  leaves, 
I  lie  and  listen  to  the  drowsy  tune 

That  memory  with  my  fancy  interweaves — 


SPENSER.  77 

While  legends  of  the  olden  time, 

Of  peerless  knights,  and  ladies  without  stain, 
Murmured  by  smiling  lips  in  words  that  chime, 

Keep  music  with  the  pulses  of  my  brain. 

Snatches  of  fairy  minstrelsy 

Echo  the  forest's  glimmering  shades  among ; 
Far  from  the  tired-out  world  I  draw  more  nigh, 

Through  Spenser's  heart  to  Nature's,  ever  young  ! 

Dreams  are  so  sweet ! — I  dare  not  think 
Myself  into  more  conscious  happiness  ; 

It  is  enough  for  me  that  I  can  drink 
Deep  at  the  poet's  fount  of  loveliness  ; 

That  I  can  kneel  where  Spenser  knelt, 

Bowing  his  lips  to  quaff  life's  current  clear — 

Love  where  he  loved,  and  let  my  dreamings  melt 
Into  the  circle  of  his  wider  sphere  ! 

My  thoughts  are  Nature's  more  than  mine  ; 

He  the  child-priest,  her  pure  interpreter, 
Who,  in  the  shadow  of  her  inmost  shrine, 

Forgetting  self,  breathes,  feels  but  only  her ! 


78  THE    SILENT    SPHINX. 

The  world  grows  older  as  it  moves — 

Men  may  be  wiser — are  their  hearts  as  great  ? 

We  have  too  many  reasons  for  our  loves — • 
We  analyze,  we  study,  not  create  ! 

The  age  of  innocence  is  past — 

It  fled  with  youth,  and  will  return  no  more  ! 
Unconscious  Beauty  knows  herself  at  last — 

But  is  she  fairer  than  she  was  before  ? 

Ah  !  let  me  love  the  golden  days — 

In  guileless  reverence  still  my  spirit  bow. 

The  "  little  ones"  who  know  the  voice  of  praise, 
They  are  the  true,  the  only  poets  now  ! 

Oct.  29,  1869. 


THE  SILENT  SPHINX. 

'Mm  Egypt's  shifting  wastes  of  sand, 

'Neath  the  blank  gaze  of  the  monotonous  sun, 

Guarding  the  gates  of  Silence,  she  doth  stand — 
The  ancient,  the  unutterable  One. 


THE    SILENT    SPHINX.  79 

What  sees  she  with  those  great,  fixed,  open  eyes — 
Looking  across  the  desert  toward  the  East  ? 

What  do  those  still  lips,  making  no  replies  ? 
Will  the  dread  secret  never  be  released  ? 

In  restless  billows  round  her  feet  have  surged 
The  nations,  self-devouring  in  their  strife — 

Those  hollow  echoes  sleep— still  man  has  urged 
The  terrible  question,  Tell  me  !  what  is  Life  ? 

Dost  Thou  not  know  ?     Thou,  with  thy  mighty  front 
Upreared  against  the  everlasting  sky — 

Through  generations  hast  thou  borne  the  brunt 
Of  Time,  yet  canst  not  tell  of  Destiny  ? 

Thou  sister  of  the  hoary  Pyramids  ! 

Has  the  Past  taught  thee  nothing — didst  thou  not, 
Watching  from  underneath  thy  sleepless  lids, 

See  the  first  germs  of  Man's  creative  thought  ? 

Thou  know'st  his  greatness,  knowest,  too,  his  guilt, 
His  griefs,  and  near,  the  chambers  of  his  rest — 

He  left  thee  guardian  of  his  tombs,  and  built 
His  temples  in  the  shadow  of  thy  breast. 


80  THE    SILENT    SPHINX. 

And  yet  thou  answerest  not ! — Hast  thou  not  heard 

The  aspirations,  seen  the  emptiness  ? 
Art  thou  so  utterly  of  stone,  no  word 

Can  stir  thee  to  the  depths  of  our  distress  ? 

What  seal  has  closed  thy  lips  — that  strange  wise  smile, 
What  icy  touch  its  dawning  sweetness  chilled  ? 

Through  centuries  of  the  rising,  falling  Nile, 
Forever  sleeps  the  Promise  unfulfilled  ? 

Ah  no  !  Amid  thy  vigil — nights  and  days 

Of  solemn  brightness,  when  the  world  lay  bare 

Before  thy  searching,  all-embracing  gaze — 
Once  fell  a  breathless  hush  upon  the  air, 

That  broke  in  distant  music — swelling  soft, 
Till  on  its  rising  waves  a  Star  upborne 

Kindled  the  East :  the  signal  flashed  aloft, 
And  thousand  voices  heralded  the  Morn  ! 

What  Day  had  dawned  ?  what  Finger  on  the  skies 
Had  traced  the  motto  of  the  heavenly  song  ? 

— Awake  !  blind  world,  awake  !  and  lift  thine  eyes — 
Lo,  in  the  East  the  Answer,  waited  long  ! 


THE    SILENT    SPHINX.  8l 

— And  did  the  revelation  pass  Thee  by  ? 

Thee,  the  All- Wise,  whom  mortals  named  All-Great ! 
Thee,  Nature's  Self,  embodied  Mystery, 

Whose  Type  did  the  creation  antedate  ! 

Ay,  to  thy  heart  it  pierced  !  the  Sword  of  Light 
Flashed  from  that  splendor  forth,  as  from  a  sheath — 

It  cleft  in  sunder  the  black  veils  of  Night, 

And  brake  the  shrine  of  Silence  underneath — 

Shivered  the  Temple's  walls  ; — then  hadst  thou  found, 
Then,  when  'twas  given  thee,  at  last,  thy  voice — 

The  earth  had  thrilled,  the  sky  had  caught  the  sound, 
The  rocks,  and  hills,  and  stars  had  cried,  Rejoice  ! 

Thou  mystical  Two-Formed  One  !  earth  was  thine. 
By  the  great  Lion-strength  that  crouched  and  clasped, 

And  to  thy  Human  higher  form  divine 

All  heaven  was  possible — hadst  thou  but  grasped 

The  gift  of  utterance,  that  moment  when 

The  Soul,  full-formed,  had  crowned  thee — couldst 

thou  bow 

Thy  haughty  front,  and  render  unto  men 
The  Answer  that  a  Mightier  than  thou 
6 


82  TO    A.    L.    B. 

Vouchsafed  to  human  weakness,  human  pain  ! 

While  thou  wert  silent,  God  was  glorified 
Through  the  meek  Christ  of  the  Judsean  plain  ; 

The  kingdom  has  passed  from  thee  in  thy  pride  ! 

Forever  dumb  !  a  curse  is  on  thy  lips  ! 

Forever  blind  !  a  blackness  smote  thine  eyes, 
When  fell  the  darkness  of  the  dread  eclipse 

That  veiled  the  mystery  of  Sacrifice  ! 


TO  A.  L.  B. 

(On  sending  her  my  verses  on  "  THE  SILENT  SPHINX"). 

MY  friend  !  you  asked  of  me  a  mighty  thing — 
Smiling  farewell,  with  sweet  words  like  gold  links 

To  chain  me  to  my  promise — saying,  "  Bring, 
And  faithfully,  the  answer  of  the  Sphinx — 


TO    A.    L.    B.  83 

The  words  she  whispered  soft  to  you  alone, 

List'ning  with  warm  ear  at  her  frozen  mouth  !  " 

I  hearkened,  but  the  oracle  was  stone, 

And  the  hot  simoon  swept  up  from  the  south, 

Blinding  and  choking,  and  all  things  seemed  dead. 

What  needed  it  to  send  me  hence  so  far  ? 
From  the  old  thrones  the  kingly  Shape  has  fled, 

Shrouded  in  dust  the  ancient  glories  are  ; 

The  desert  has  no  voice  :  but  not  in  vain 

The  search  for  Truth,  e'en  though  we  find  it  not — 

Weakness  is  power  sometimes,  and  loss  is  gain  — 
The  seeker  greater  than  the  thing  he  sought. 

What  though  Life's  problem  be  as  stern  as  fate  ? 

The  labyrinth  lies  open  from  above — 
God's  sun  illumes  the  windings  intricate — 

We  know  not  where  we  go,  but  God  is  Love. 

And  in  forgetting  self,  and  knowing  Him, 

Living  for  others,  gaining  but  to  give, 
In  our  own  homes  we  read  the  riddle  dim — 

We  do  not  live  to  die,  we  die  to  live  ! 

Dec.  7, 1869. 


84  TO    A.     L.    B. 

TO  A.  L.  B. 

(On  her  return  from  Europe  and  the  East,  August,  1868.) 

IN  fairer,  yet  familiar  guise 

I  greet  thee,  fresh  from  foreign  lands  ! 
Once  more  I  read  thy  earnest  eyes, 

Once  more  we  meet  with  clinging  hands. 

I  listen  to  thy  eager  voice, 

Grown  richer  with  its  glowing  themes — 
And  in  my  heart  of  hearts  rejoice 

That  one  of  us  has  more  than  dreams  ! 

That  one  of  us  has  trod  in  truth, 

Where  round  her  feet  the  elder  world 

Her  torn,  but  radiant  robe  of  youth 

Trails,  splendid,  with  Art's  gems  impearled. 

That  on  the  shining  Midland  Sea, 

"  Whose  waters  throb  with  memories," 

'Neath  the  warm  skies  of  Italy, 

On  Hellas'  honey-scented  breeze — 


TO    A.    L.    B.  85 

In  the  beloved  Holy  Land, 

Or  where,  amid  her  ruins  vast, 
Enshrouded  in  the  desert  sand, 

Sleeps  Egypt,  Mother  of  the  Past ; 

To  thee  has  come,  by  land  and  sea, 

Fruition  fair  of  joy  foretold — 
Life's  Alchemist,  Reality, 

Has  turned  our  web  of  dreams  to  gold ! 

And  while,  O  friend,  rejoicing  so, 
Once  more  I  press  thee  to  my  heart, 

'Tis  sweeter  far  than  all  to  know 

We  grew  more  near,  when  far  apart  ! 

On  hoary  mount,  in  Alpine  glen, 

Thou,  wandering,  felt'st  my  hand  in  thine, 

And  while  I  mused  o'er  book  and  pen. 
From  the  fair  page  thy  smile  would  shine. 

Together  thus  we  roamed,  and  stayed — 
In  different  airs  we  breathed  one  breath — 

And  thus  together,  unafraid, 

We  wait  the  great  Divider,  Death  ! 


86  TRANSLATIONS    FROM    MUSIC. 

Upon  one  upward  journey  bound, 
Together,  though  apart,  we  trod — 

Through  devious  ways  one  path  we  found — 
And,  soon  or  late,  it  ends  in  God. 


TRANSLATIONS  FROM  MUSIC. 

Nocturnes. 

(CHOPIN  No.   III.) 

IN  the  garden  at  night !  the  air  is  dank 
With  the  heavy  scent  of  the  lily-bank  ; 
The  shrouding  mists  rise  out  of  the  sea — 
Is  the  darkness  over  the  earth,  or  me  ? 

I  tread  the  old  path,  and  I  stretch  my  hands 

To  feel  for  the  clinging  jasmine-bands, 

That  clustered  yesterday  round  Her  curls, 

With  their  white,  sweet  blossoms,  fairer  than  pearls. 


TRANSLATIONS    FROM    MUSIC.  87 

They  droop,  they  are  trembling  under  my  touch — 
Ah,  but  one  step  farther.     I  ask  not  much — 
Where  the  faint,  crushed  rose-leaves  kiss  my  feet, 
To  die  with  the  Summer,  when  death  is  sweet ! 

In  the  dim  West  breaketh  a  struggling  light, 
The  Love-star  is  sinking  down  thro'  the  night — 
My  life  glides  with  it  out  toward  the  deep. 
I  am  weary  with  joy — oh,  let  me  sleep  ! 

At  twilight  she  told  me,  under  the  vine — 
I  am  hers  forever,  as  she  is  mine  ! 
We  have  loved  each  other — that  is  best — 
Though  we  died  together,  she  on  my  breast ! 

Is  there  one  dark  thought  to  ruffle  my  dream  ? 
The  midnight  feast  after,  the  strange  hot  gleam 
That  lit  her  father's  eyes,  as  he  filled 
My  cup  with  the  red  wine  until  it  spilled — 

And  I  drank  to  him  with  my  voice,  by  name, 
And  I  drank  to  her  with  my  heart  aflame, 
In  silence  that  speaks  more  loud  than  breath — 
And  she  drank  with  me.  but  we  both  drank  death ! 


TRANSLATIONS    FROM    MUSIC. 

She  lieth  so  still  and  white  in  the  room — 
And  I  faint  out  here,  in  the  perfumed  gloom  ; 
Between  us  there  lies  the  castle  wall 
I  leaped  over  once — now  barriers  fall 

With  the  last  struggling,  human,  long-drawn  sigh  : — 
We  are  drifting  together,  she  and  I, 
Soul  clasped  with  soul,  toward  eternity — 
The  hand  that  would  chain  us  has  set  us  free  ! 

Ah,  the  clouds  are  breaking,  'tis  almost  dawn — 
The  fresh  breeze  comes  whispering  up  from  the  lawn, 
The  dew  falls  cool  on  valley  and  hill — 
It  touches  my  forehead,  and  I  am  still. 

Where  the  roses  have  fallen,  lay  me  low — 
Life's  fever-flush  over — 'tis  holier  so  ! 
Crown  me  with  lilies,  calm  after  strife — 
The  passionate  perfume  exhales  with  life  ! 

The  calm  grows  deeper — I  close  my  eyes — 
Do  I  hear  the  heavenly  harmonies  ? 
Joy's  undertone  through  my  heart  pulsates — 
The  love  is  divine  that  death  consecrates  ! 


UNREQUITING.  89 

Peace  broods  o'er  the  earth,  peace  reigns  in  the  sky— 
It  was  Love,  to  live — 'tis  Heaven,  to  die  ! 
— Peace  !  upon  angels'  wings  upborne, 
In  the  strange  dark  hour  before  the  morn  ! 

Nov.  18,  1869. 


UNREQUITING. 

I  CANNOT  love  thee,  but  I  hold  thee  dear— 
Thou  must  not  stay — I  cannot  bid  thee  go  ! 

I  am  so  lonely,  and  the  end  draws  near — 
Ah,  love  me  still,  but  do  not  tell  me  so  ! 

'Tis  but  a  little  longer — keep  thy  faith  ! 

Though  love's  last  rapture  I  shall  never  know, 
I  fain  would  trust  thee,  even  unto  death. 

Ah,  love  me  still,  but  do  not  tell  me  so  ! 

I  am  so  poor  I  have  no  self  to  give, 
And  less  than  all  I  will  not  offer,  no  ! 

I  die,  but  not  for  thee — fain  would  I  live — 
Ay  !  love  me  still,  but  do  not  tell  me  so  1 


9O  UNREQUITING. 

Like  a  strange  flower  that  blossoms  in  the  night, 
And  dies  at  dawn,  love  faded  long  ago — 

Born  in  a  dream,  it  perished  with  the  light — 
Lov'st  thou  me  still  ?  ah,  do  not  tell  me  so  ! 

Let  me  imagine  that  thou  art  my  friend — 
No  less — no  more,  I  ask  for  here  below  ! 

Be  patient  with  me  even  to  the  end — 
Loving  me  still,  thou  wilt  not  tell  me  so  ! 

Those  words  were  sweet  once — never  more  again  ! 

— I  thought  my  dream  had  vanished,  let  it  go ! 
I  dreamed  of  joy — I  woke,  it  turned  to  pain — 

Ah,  love  me  still,  but  never  tell  me  so  ! 

I  cannot  lose  thee  yet,  so  near  to  heaven  ! 

There  with  diviner  love  all  souls  shall  glow ; 
There  is  no  marriage  bond,  no  vows  are  given — 

Thou'lt  love  me  still,  nor  need  to  tell  me  so  ! 

Ah  !  I  am  selfish,  asking  even  this — 
I  cannot  love  thee,  nor  yet  bid  thee  go  ! 

To  utter  love  is  nigh  love's  dearest  bliss — 
Thou  lov'st  me  still,  and  dost  not  tell  me  so  ! 

Dec.  3,  1869. 


TO    ROSALIE.  91 

TO  ROSALIE. 

On  sending  her  a  bud  from  a  bouquet  of  roses,  which,  being  absent,  she 
did  not  receive,  Friday  evening,  January  \$th,  1870. 

AMONG  the  brilliant  faces  yester  eve, 
The  rippling  voices  and  the  laughter  gay, 
I  knew  not  what  I  missed  that  made  me  grieve — 
My   rosebud  was    not    there,   queen-flower    of    the 
bouquet ! 

Glad  were  the  others,  as  at  other  times, 
But  I,  from  knowing  sweeter  might  have  been, 
Was  scarce  attuned  to  the  music's  chimes, 
Nor  fain,  as  oft,  to  join  the  dancers'  merry  din. 

Something  there  was  that  touched  the  conscious  air 
With  faint  suggestion  of  thy  presence  still — 
Thy  breath,  thy  smile,  were  near  me  everywhere, 
As  scent   of  unseen  flowers  the  longing  sense   may 
thrill. 

Perhaps  this  creamy  tinted  pile' of  bloom, 
With  violets  for  shadows,  that  all  night 
Stood  near  me,  through  the  dazzle  of  the  room, 
Filled  the  void  I  felt,  not  saw,  with  vague  delight ! 


92  FROM    WITHOUT. 

The  flowers  are  withered  now,  and  all  is  past. 
They  had  been  lovelier  in  thy  hand,  my  sweet ! 
But  still  the  perfume  lingers  to  the  last, 
As  the  invisible  soul  with  sense  and  death  doth  meet. 

The  Near  is  no  more  ours  than  the  Beyond ; 
But  that  fades  with  the  touch,  the  other  lives  ; 
And  the  Ideal,  by  a  mystic  bond 
Above,  yet  one  with  us,  still  in  withdrawing,  gives. 

So  this,  the  fragrance  of  a  joy  that's  fled, 
May  I  still  send  embalmed  in  memory ; 
To  living  love  no  absence  can  make  dead  ; 
And  though  thou  know  it  not,  this  bud  is  part  of  thee  ! 

Jan.  !6,  1870. 


FROM  WITHOUT. 

AH  !  let  me  lie  the  livelong  summer  day, 
Breathed  into,  but  not  breathing — touched  and  stirred 
By  careless  sunshine's  wandering  ray, 
Chance  song  of  bird — 


FROM    WITHOUT.  93 

Half  waking  to  the  warm  wind's  soft  caress, 
Dreaming,  while  light  the  velvet-footed  hours  go  by, 
Happy  in  Nature's  happiness, 
Nor  knowing  why  ! 

No  poet  am  I — though  perhaps  of  such 
Who  sipped  the  vintage  of  immortal  youth 
In  olden  days,  and,  loving  much, 
Knew  most  of  Truth. 

I  cannot  make  the  beauty  that  I  love, 
Nor  even  sing  it  of  my  own  free  will ; 
The  glory  rains  down  from  above, 
And  I  lie  still. 

Like  the  ./Eolian  harp,  that  lives  alone 
In  music,  and  without  the  wind  were  dumb, 
I  wait  a  rapture  not  my  own, 
And  it  will  come. 

E'en    now    the    viewless    power    my    heart-strings 

sweeps  : 
I  am  the  harp,  heaven  sends-  the  melody. 

What  breathes  ?  what  stirs  the  soul  that  sleeps  ? 
The  wind — not  I. 

Ftb.  13,  1870. 


94  LINES. 

LINES 

Written  after  reading  GEORGE  ELIOT'S  "  Spanish  Gypsy," 

PANTING,  oppressed,  with  aching  heart  I  come 
From  the  dark  depths  where  a  pale  Genius  stands, 
Holding  with  steady  hand  the  heaven-lit  torch 
Whose  light  reveals  naught  but  the  caverns  vast 
That  wind  through  endless  regions  of  despair  ! 
A  form  in  woman's  garments  dressed,  but  stern 
And  terrible  as  some  old  heathen  god 
Frozen  to  marble  by  a  cold-eyed  Fate  — 
A  solemn  sovereign,  there  she  holds  her  state. 
Crowds  bend  in  homage  at  her  awful  shrine, 
And  gaze  with  hungry  eyes  upon  the  flame, 
Sun-bright,  she  raises  in  her  sceptred  hand — 
Her  kingdom's  sign,  revealer  of  her  woe. 
Down  the  dim  paths  the  human  multitude 
Press,  eager,  till  they  reach  their  dazzling  goal  ; 
Then,  blind,  bewildered,  wander  aimless  on, 
And  lose  themselves  forever  in  the  dark. 

From  forth  those  tomb-like  vaults,  where  Hope  lies 

dead, 
Love  suffocates,  and  Faith  has  lost  her  wings, 


LINES.  95 

With  lightened  breath  I  come  to  upper  air. 
— O  God  !  the  woods  are  green,  the  meadows  soft; 
The  great  sea  clasps  the  earth  round  lovingly  ; 
Light  tips  the  waves  with  changing  opal  glow, 
Light  glimmers  in  the  forest  'neath  the  shade, 
Light  tints  the  flowers,  and  on  the  mountain  tops 
Sits  glorious,  and  makes  them  crystal  thrones  ! 
Thy  thunders  crash  in  brilliancy — Thy  clouds 
Shed  living  diamonds  on  the  thirsty  earth, 
And,  far  above  the  changing,  rolling  world, 
The  vast  concave  of  space,  filled  full  of  Light, 
Enwraps  the  universe  with  veils  of  stars  ! 
— And  can  it  be,  that  darkly-gleaming  torch, 
That  only  burned  to  light  a  sepulchre, 
Claims  with  the  sun  divine  affinity, 
And  with  its  upward  flame  aspires  to  Heaven  ? 
— Like  to  an  eagle,  moved  with  grand  unrest, 
Beating  with  mighty  wings  the  trackless  air, 
But  with  the  piercing  orbs  all  sightless  dark — 
So  Genius,  yearning  toward  the  Infinite, 
Winged  with  divine  aspiring,  helplessly 
Struggles  toward  heaven  to  seek  its  kindred  sun, 
And  sinks  at  last,  in  aching  darkness  lost — 
Genius,  God-gifted,  but  forgetting  God  ! 

Aug.  22,  1868. 


96  RESTLESS. 

RESTLESS. 

I  THOUGHT  I  had  buried  it  fathoms  deep — 
But  it  stirs  in  its  sleep,  it  stirs  in  its  sleep  ! 
The  beautiful  thing  with  its  angel's  eyes — 
I  have  buried  it  once,  and  it  never  shall  rise 
With  the  heart  of  a  fiend  for  tempting  ! 

I  never  can  go  to  its  grave  to  weep, 

For  it  stirs  in  its  sleep,  it  stirs  in  its  sleep — 
The  warm  tears  pierce  thro'  the  piled-up  mould, 
And  they  wake  with  their  dropping  the  ashes  cold 
That  the  grass  has  long  since  grown  over. 

'Neath  the  years  I  buried  it  close  and  deep, 
But  it  stirs  in  its  sleep,  it  stirs  in  its  sleep  ! 
I  thought  it  was  hidden  beneath  the  flowers 
That  once  bloomed  in  the  sun  of  a  few  short  hours 
When  I  dreamed  that  I  could  forget ! 

The  dead  love  lies  buried,  my  watch  I  keep 
Lest  it  stir  in  its  sleep,  lest  it  stir  in  its  sleep — 

It  died  in  its  innocence,  young,  so  fair  ! 

But  'twould  waken  with  snakes  in  its  golden  hair 
And  Medusa's  talons  to  rend  me  ! 

Sett.,  1868. 


WUD-AN-WATHA.  97 


Wto-AN-WATHA. 


Extract  from  a  joint  poem,  -written  with  E.  J.  D.,  and  sent  to  the 
Adirondac  party,  July,  1  868. 


CONCLUSION. 

WELL,  they  found  him,  Wud-an-Watha, 
Found  him  to  their  hearts'  contentment, 
For  he  was  a  jolly  fellow, 
Bronzed  and  ruddy,  clothed  in  bear-skins, 
With  a  breezy  voice  and  greeting, 
Strong,  and  somewhat  fierce,  but  kindly. 
Where  they  sought  him  there  they  found  him 
In  the  Ad-I-Ron-Dac  country, 
Where  he  fled  in  days  long  by-gone — 
Fled  to  hide  himself  from  plough-shares. 
Mill-wheels,  and  grass-cutting  patents. 
Means  by  men  contrived  for  torture  ! 
Need  we  wonder  that  he  shunned  them 
When  they  sought  his  hiding-places, 
And  that  when  our  party  sought  him, 
He  rebuffed  them  with  a  growling, 
As  of  thunder  in  the  mountains  ; 
7 


WUD-AN-WATHA. 

Sent  his  scouts,  the  teasing  black-flies, 

His  guerrillas,  the  mosquitoes, 

From  his  haunts  to  bid  them  hasten  ? 

Or  that  in  his  wayward  moments 

He  would  treat  them  to  adventures — 

Hairbreadth  'scapes  by  Wiid-an-Watha — 

Tipping  them  into  the  rivers 

From  the  vessel  called  the  Dug-out, 

Wetting  clothes  and  spoiling  tempers, 

Tearing  dresses  with  his  bmmbles  ; 

And  the  dainty-footed  women, 

Shod  with  shoe  surnamed  Bal-Mo-Ral, 

Sticking  in  the  mud  for  mischief — 

Mud,  much  like  to  Lasses  Kan-Dee. 

But  they  found  him,  Wud-an-Watha, 

Found  him  in  his  cabin  lonely, 

Roofed  by  sky  and  arched  with  tree-boughs, 

With  no  walls  but  flowing  streamlets, 

Flowing,  gurgling  all  around  him. 

And  they  learned  to  love  the  fellow, 

With  his  wayward,  teasing  nature, 

With  his  roughness  and  his  shyness. 

So  at  last  he  bade  them  kindly 

Welcome  to  his  woodland  region  ; 


WUD-AN-WATHA.  99 

Showed  them  pictures,  sunlight  painted, 
Or  at  night-time  sculptured  beauties, 
Dark  and  moveless  as  the  woods  are 
Turned  to  marble  by  the  moonlight. 
And  the  music  that  he  gave  them — 
Dare  I  spoil  it  in  my  versing, 
Adding  words  to  what  was  only 
Music  in  its  purest  essence  ? 
Telling  how  among  the  pine-trees, 
Wud-an-Watha's  "organ  splendid, 
Sang  the  wind,  and  sighed,  and  rustled, 
Made  a  booming,  Availing  music — 
Telling  how  the  murmuring  waters 
Rippled,  danced,  and  talked  together 
In  an  undertone  of  sweetness. 
But  I  cannot  tell  the  story, 
Save  to  those  who  know  my  hero, 
Know  and  love  him  in  his  wildness. 
Those  who  ne'er  have  been  to  seek  him, 
Or  have  sought  him,  feeble-hearted, 
Those  he  hates,  and  treats  them  roughly, 
Naming  in  contemptuous  manner 
In  his  language,  Si-Ti-People. 
And  to  those  who  know  and  love  him, 


IOO  GOD    DEFENDS    THE    RIGHT. 

Love  him  in  his  simple  wildness, 
Need  is  none  to  draw  his  portrait, 
For  upon  their  hearts  'tis  painted — 
Need  is  none  to  tell  his  story, 
But  they  know  his  secrets  wholly, 
For  he  told  them  in  the  mountains  ! 

Dec.  23,  1868. 


GOD  DEFENDS  THE  RIGHT. 

OUR  country  is  divided  and  we  weep, 
But  patriots  all  have  risen  from  their  sleep, 
Their  hearts  are  strong,  their  eyes  are  bright, 
Their  shout  of  battle  : — God  defends  the  Right ! 

We  may  despond — we  cannot  do  so  long, 
We  trust  in  Him  who's  stronger  than  the  strong ; 
We  know  that  He  will  save  us  in  His  might  ; 
Our  cause  is  righteous  :  God  defends  the  Right. 

Behold  !  they  come,  a  fratricidal  band, 
Their  mother's  blood  upon  their  lifted  hand  ! 
Their  knees  will  tremble,  and  their  brows  grow  white 
Before  that  war-cry  : — God  defends  the  Right ! 


THE    WILD    ROSE.  IOI 


We  need  not  fear.     We  do  not,  we  are  strong  ; 
We'll  surely  triumph  ;  they  are  in  the  wrong  ; 
We'll  hope,  and  trust,  and  bravely  fight  the  fight, 
And  win  at  last,  for  God  defends  the  Right  ! 


THE  WILD  ROSE. 

"  ROSE  !  by  the  wayside  blooming  ; 

Sweet  flower,  elfin-wild, 
Whence  cometh  all  thy  beauty, 
Thou  fairest  Nature's  child  ?  " 

The  rose  blushed  and  was  silent ; 

Then  raised  her  timid  eye, 
And  looked  up  to  the  heavens. 

That  was  her  sole  reply. 

May  31,  1862. 


102  AMY. 

AMY. 

RAVEN  tresses  round  her  forehead, 
Dark  eyes  closed  in  peace, 

Hands  folded  on  her  bosom — 
For  her  all  sorrows  cease. 

Of  earth's  turmoil  she  was  weary, 
She  longed  to  be  at  rest : 

She  sleeps  now,  like  an  infant 
Upon  its  mother's  breast. 

She  ill  could  bear  the  sorrows, 
The  pains  and  cares  of  life  ; 

And  God  in  mercy  took  her 
Where  there's  an  end  of  strife. 

Place  in  her  hand  a  lily, 

A  lily  pure  and  fair, 
Its  perfume  heavenward  rising 

Like  an  unuttered  prayer. 

Of  purity  meet  emblem — 
White  as  the  driven  snow — 

Tis  fit  that  she  should  bear  it 
When  leaving  all  below. 


THE    BIRTH    OF    THE    OPAL.  IO3 

For  'tis  a  holy  token 

Of  pardon  and  of  love. 
It  images  the  garments 

In  which  the  blessed  move. 

For  her  there's  now  no  weeping  ; 

Tears  no  more  dim  her  eye  ! 
She  wears  those  robes  of  glory 

And  walks  with  saints  on  high ! 

September  20,  1862. 


THE  BIRTH  OF  THE  OPAL. 

A  LITTLE  stone  lay  on  the  ground, 

A  poor  despised  stone, 
And  everywhere,  above,  around, 

The  soft  air  stirred,  the  sunbeams  shone, 
And  all  was  light  and  life. 

All  lustreless  and  dark  it  lay, 
Its  gaze  turned  toward  the  sun. 

It  longed,  down-trodden  in  the  way, 

For  but  one  sunbeam,  only  one, 

To  rest  upon  its  heart. 


IO4  DUMB    MUSIC. 

It  lay  there,  yearning  toward  the  light, 

Absorbed  in  one  desire  : 
To  be  no  more  enwrapped  in  night, 

But  with  baptism  of  heavenly  fire 
To  pass  from  death  to  life. 

The  sun  went  down  in  brilliant  glow, 
All  crimson  burned  the  west, 

The  stone's  heart  thrilled  with  joy,  and  lo  ! 
The  sunset  lingered  in  her  breast ! 
She  lived,  a  gem  of  price. 

LENOX,  Sept.  10,  1863. 


DUMB  MUSIC. 

THE  night  broods  o'er  the  waters,  faint  and  sweet 
As  scent  of  blossoms,  by  the  balmy  feet 
Of  Day,  departing,  pressed. 

The  dim  young  moon  sinks  slowly  through  the  mist, 
Leaving  a  lingering  smile  behind,  while,  list ! 
Love-charmed,  the  wavelets  sigh. 


A    VASE    OF    LILIES.  1 

My  heart  throbs  with  the  throbbing  waves,  and  fain 
Would  flutter  upward  to  yon  star — in  vain  ! 
'Tis  a  caged  bird,  and  dumb 

The  Beautiful,  with  fingers  touched  with  fire, 
Has  swept  the  chords  that  tune  my  spirit's  lyre, 
But,  thrilling,  they  are  mute. 

Oh  !  joy,  to  feel  !  Oh  !  pain,  to  songless  pant ! 
This  earthly  air  is  close,  and  I  am  faint 

For  one  pure  breath  from  Heaven  ! 

There  angel  harps  stir  echoes  full  and  clear ; 
There  sounds  shall  wake  that  slept  to  human  ear, 
And  there  my  lyre  find  voice  ! 

LAKE  ONTARIO,  August  6,  1864. 


A   VASE   OF   LILIES. 

A  CRYSTAL  vase,  with  slender  stem, 
All  clear  and  sparkling,  like  a  gem  ; 

And  from  its  lucent  depth 
Fair  lilies  rising,  pure  as  air, 

And  sweet  as  Summer's  breath. 


106  A    VASE    OF    LILIES. 

Ethereal  blooms  !   they  seem  to  grow 
From  the  transparent  stem  below, 

Too  pure  to  touch  the  earth, 
And,  skyward  turning,  e'en  would  claim 

Its  cloud- wreaths  as  their  birth. 

I  musing  gaze,  and,  while  I  dream, 
The  sun  has  dropped  a  wavering  gleam 

And  lit  their  foreheads  pale, 
As  saints  are  crowned  by  angel  hands 

When  passed  beyond  the  veil. 

And  now  they  glow,  all  filled  with  light, 
Until,  transfigured,  heavenly  bright, 

Their  substance  melts  away, 
And  in  the  glory  visions  rise — 

Visions  more  fair  than  Day. 

Cecilia's  soul  of  song,  with  eyes 
Upturned  to  the  melodious  skies, 

Meek  Agnes'  smile  of  love, — 
The  martyred  saints,  who  triumphed  once, 

Now  rest  serene  above. 


DISENCHANTMENT.  IO/ 

In  purity  they  conquered  then, 
And  since,  on  the  abodes  of  men, 

With  pitying  smile  look  down  : 
And  if  their  lilies  now  we  bear, 

We  may  attain  their  crown  ! 


Ah  !  they  are  fading,  blossoms  frail, 
But  still  they  leave  a  ling'ring  trail 

Of  sweetness  on  the  air, 
And  so  within  my  soul  there  rest 

Those  visions  pure  and  fair. 

Aug.  30,  1864. 


DISENCHANTMENT. 

BY  the  shore  of  Life's  ocean  I  linger,  and  dream 
Dreams,  ah  !   so  surpassingly  fair  ! 

While  the  opaline  waters  so  restlessly  gleam, 
And  quivers  in  sunshine  the  air. 


108  LINES. 

But,  entranced  while  I  stand,  as  my  visions  arise, 
And  wrap  me,  bewildered,  around 

In  a  tissue  of  sunlight  and  irident  dyes  ; 
And  fairy-like  melodies  sound — 

The  tide  has  advanced ;   a  wave  breaks  at  my  feet, 
And,  sobbing,  ebbs  back  to  the  deep  : 

In  a  shower  of  tears  my  imaginings  sweet 
Have  vanished  and  left  me  to  weep. 

Nov.  2,  1864. 


LINES 

TO   A   CHILD, 

Standing  absorbed  before  GUIDO'S  "Michael and  the  Dragot 
(L.    S.) 

LITTLE  one,  why  fades  the  smile 
That  dimpled  in  thy  cheek  erewhile  ? 
What  depths  are  these  within  thine  eyes, 
And  what  the  shadowy  thoughts  that  rise 
Within  them,  gazing  rapt  ? 


LINES. 

That  wondrous  painting  on  the  wall — 
The  Arch-Fiend,  'writhing  in  his  fall, 
The  Angel,  terrible  and  calm, 
God's  vengeance  in  his  lifted  arm, 
God's  pity  in  his  face — 

I  see  it  now  ;   'tis  there  the  spell 
That  in  thy  heart's  fresh,  limpid  well 
Has  stirred  the  waters,  as  the  spring 
Was  ruffled  by  a  spirit's  wing 
In  the  old,  holy  time. 

Gaze  not  too  closely,  gentle  one  ! 
A  little  while  to  play  return  ; 
For  soon,  ah,  soon  !  thy  soul  must  feel 
The  meaning  of  the  strife,  and  steel 
Itself  to  meet  the  foe. 


Thou  canst  not  always  sweetly  dream, 
Soothed  by  the  rippling,  murmuring  stream 
Thou  deemest  Life  to  be.     Ere  long 
A  deeper  rhythm  will  swell  its  song, 
The  brook  will  near  the  sea. 


IIO  HIDDEN    STARS. 

Hark  to  the  solem  minor  strain 
Its  music  melts  in !     Joy  and  pain, 
The  victor's  chant,  the  mourner's  wail, 
Come,  blended  by  the  ocean  gale 
In  one  grand  symphony. 

Hush  !   'tis  Life's  harmony  I  hear  ! 
No  purling  brook  can  charm  mine  ear, 
For,  though  the  battling  billows  roar, 
At  last,  upon  the  farther  shore 
They  chime  with  angel  songs. 

Dec.  25,  1864. 


HIDDEN  STARS. 

MY  soul,  where  is  thy  faith  ? 

God  is,  rest  thou  in  Him  ! 
His  glory  shineth  yet ; 

'Tis  that  thine  eyes  are  dim. 

"The  sky  seems  void,"  thou  sayst, 
"That  heavenly  light  beams  far  ; 

I  could  look  upward  once, 

But  He  has  quenched  my  star." 


HIDDEN    STARS.  Ill 

My  soul,  look  up  !  look  up  ! 

Worship,  unknowing  still ! 
Gaze,  till  celestial  light 

Doth  all  thy  being  fill  ! 

God  hid  her  in  Himself, 

As  veils  the  stars  the  moon  ; 
Gaze  on  the  greater  orb, 

Thou'lt  see  the  lesser  soon. 

As  when  the  crescent  fair 

Beams  in  the  sunset  sky, 
Intent  we  look,  nor  deem 

The  star  of  eve  so  nigh, 

A  momentary  glance 

Reveals  the  quiv'ring  light, 
Which,  had  we  sought,  were  hid 

From  our  too  straining  sight — 

So  God  would  have  us  fix 

Our  hearts  on  Him  alone, 
And  in  His  glory  see 

Our  loved  ones  round  the  throne. 

Jan.  i,  1865. 


112  C.    A.     H. 

C.  A.  H. 

(May  7,  1865). 

I  HAD  a  dream  last  night — a  happy  dream, 

I  write  it  now  with  tears.     Might  I  recall 

That  vision  fair,  and  clasp  it  to  my  breast ! 

— Methought  she  came,  the  friend  so  lately  lost, 

Came  in  as  bright  a  guise  as  last  she  wore 

When  we  two  met — and  parted  :  and  we  talked, 

And  looked  into  each  other's  eyes,  and  sweet 

Was  our  communion — strangely  sweet,  but  sad  ; 

Her  eyes  burned  with  a  solemn  radiance, 

And  mine  grew  full  of  tears,  I  knew  not  why, 

Save  that  she  seemed  far-off,  and  different. 

"Why  shouldst  thou  weep?  "  she  said,  and  pressed 

me  close 

In  one  long,  sweet  embrace.     Oh  !  I  can  feel 
Her  arms  about  me  still,  and  I  do  think 
It  must  be  that  her  spirit  came  to  mine 
When  earthly  things  were  hid  from  me  in  sleep. 
I  could  not  bear  such  happiness  for  long, 
And  so  she  left  me  ;  but  she  said  :  "I  came 
To  tell  thee  that  I  love  thee  still,  and  wait  /  " 


THE    PSYCHE-BIRD.  113 

And  in  a  moment,  lifting  up  my  eyes, 

I  saw  her  in  the  distance,  and  her  face 

Transfigured  with  the  dazzling  light  that  streamed 

From  a  half-opened  gateway,  where  she  stood. 

— And  thus  I  woke.     Did  I  awake  in  sooth, 

Or  dream  I  now  that  she  is  dead,  and  I 

Am  left  to  tread  alone  Life's  rugged  path 

Of  hard  realities  ?— Realities  ! 

Nay,  Life's  vain  phantoms  pass,  but  what  we  see 

With  spiritual  eyes  is  deathless,  real, 

And  glorious  far  beyond  what  tongue  can  tell. 

FT.  W.,  May  15,  1865. 


THE  PSYCHE-BIRD. 

ONCE  through  the  crystal  gates  of  Paradise — 
That  land  of  snowy  mounts  and  gardens  fair, 

We  dream  of,  gazing  in  the  sunset  skies — 
A  little  bird  strayed  forth,  all  unaware. 
8 


114  THE    PSYCHE-BIRD. 

Afar  it  flew,  and  sang  its  heavenly  lays, 

While  the  harmonious  spheres  stood  dumb  to  hear, 
Until,  too  faint  its  weary  wings  to  raise, 

It  saw  the  Earth,  an  isle  of  rest,  lay  near. 

And  there  stood  one,  with  happy,  steadfast  gaze, 
And  thoughts  lost  in  the  boundless,  -blue  abyss  : 

A  brow  to  wear  the  Poet's  wreath  of  bays, 
A  heart  to  suffer  and  to  love  were  his. 

With  rainbow  pinions  folded  round  its  breast, 
As  drops  a  falling  star,  it  downward  slid, 

And  nestled  where  it  might  at  last  find  rest ; 
For  in  the  Poet's  heart  of  hearts  'twas  hid. 

Thenceforth,  thro'  all  his  many  wanderings, 

He  cherished  close  and  warm  that  heav'nly  guest, 

And  felt  the  restless  fluttering  of  its  wings, 
While  throbbed  unuttered  music  in  his  breast. 

Ofttimes  he  sang,  and,  when  his  song  rose  high, 
It  thrilled  with  nameless  joy  the  souls  of  men. 

They  knew  not  'twas  a  heaven-born  melody, 
That  sighed  to  reach  its  starry  home  again. 


THE    WATER-LILY.  11 

But  still  the  loveliest  songs  were  left  unsung, 

For  when  his  heart  with  highest  rapture  swelled, 

Struggling  within  he  felt,  while  mute  its  tongue, 
The  home-sick  pris'ner  that  his  bosom  held. 

From  heav'n  it  came,  to  heav'n  it  still  aspired — 
Within  his  breast  it  spread  its  wings  to  fly ; 

But  he,  whose  spirit  it  had  once  inspired, 

Cried  "No,  thou  shalt  not  leave  me  till  I  die  !  ", 

And  when  at  last  the  happy  moment  came, 
And  from  its  mortal  part  his  soul  was  freed, 

That  cherished  bird  spread  forth  its  wings  of  flame, 
And  soared  with  him,  where  song  is  song  indeed  ! 

July  8,  1865. 


THE  WATER-LILY. 

FAIR  Water-Lily,  floating  calm 
Upon  the  glassy  stream, 

Too  beautiful  for  flower  of  earth — 
Thy  birth  was  in  a  dream  ! 


Il6  TO    A  *    *    *    *. 

For  on  a  balmy  summer  night, 

In  golden  days  of  yore, 
Peaceful,  as  wrapped  in  slumber  sweet, 

Lay  sky,  and  lake,  and  shore. 

And  drowsy  grew  the  stars  ;  but  one, 

Arousing  in  her  sleep, 
Saw,  far  below,  an  image  fair 

Reflected  in  the  deep  ; 

And,  smiling,  dreamed  again  of  Love.— 
When  rose  the  sun  that  morn 

He  kissed  the  smile-touched  wave  to  life, 
And  lo  !  the  flower  was  born  ! 

Aug.  12,  1865. 


TO  A  *  *  *  *. 

YOU  would  not  tell  me,  darling, 
But  I  saw  it  in  your  eyes — 

As  shineth  in  the  brooklet 
The  light  of  summer  skies. 


CRYSTALLIZED    MOONLIGHT.  II? 

The  depths  that  once  in  shadow 
Their  treasures  hid  from  sight, 

Now  flash  with  living  diamonds, 
And  quiver  in  the  light: 

And  tho'  the  brooklet  babbles 

Its  nothing  in  my  ear, 
I  see  the  sunlight  smiling — 

I  know  your  secret,  dear  ! 

Dec.  30,  1865. 


CRYSTALLIZED  MOONLIGHT. 

TO-DAY  the  streets  look  dreary,  but  last  night 
The  sky  was  clear  as  crystal,  and  the  earth, 

Wrapped  in  a  robe  of  moonlight,  glistened  white, 
And  seemed  as  pure  as  on  its  day  of  birth. 

I  looked  before  I  slept,  and  thought — "  Alas  ! 

'Twill  fade,  as  dreams  fade,  with  the  morn  " — but 

no  ! 
Not  thus  that  heaven-born  loveliness  did  pass — 

But  the  white  moonbeams  turned  to  starry  snow  ! 


Il8  CLARCHEN'S    SONG. 

Like  to  that  dreamy  light  that  floods  the  skies 
Are  the  fair  thoughts  to  poet-spirits  given — 

Thoughts  that  in  "winged  words"  do  crystallize, 
And  leave  on  earth  some  fleeting  trace  of  heaven 

NEW  YORK,  March  3,  1866. 


CLARCHEN'S  SONG. 

From  the  German  of  Gothe. 

JOYFUL, 
And  tearful — 

In  dreaming  how  blest ! 
Yearning, 
Yet  fearful— 

In  doubt,  how  distrest ! 

To  the  skies  now  exalted — 

To  death  now  thrust  down — 
The  spirit  that  loveth 
Is  happy  alone  ! 

March  at,  1866 


A    DREAM.  119 

A  DREAM. 

As  one  who  sleeps  and  dreams  a  wondrous  dream, 

Then,  starting,  wakes,  and  says  :    "It  was  not  so!  " 

But  still  his  thoughts  take  up  the  broken  thread 

And  weave  it  on  thro'  fitful  slumbers,  till 

The  golden  tissue  is  complete,  and  shames 

The  glories  of  the  ever-bright'ning  Day — 

So  thro'  my  life  a  vision  runs,  that  grows 

More  beautiful  the  longer  that  I  live, 

Until  I  know  that  it  alone  is  Truth, 

And  I  but  dream  while  thinking  that  I  wake. 

My  happy  childhood  dwelt  within  a  vale, 
So  sunny,  warm,  and  dewy-fresh,  with  trees 
Of  murmurous  foliage  singing  drowsy  tunes, 
And  silver-dropping  waves,  and  velvet  turf, 
It  seemed  a  cradle  fit  to  sleep  a  life  away. 
But  round  about,  grand  mountains  lifted  high 
Their  snowy  pinnacles,  that,  crowned  with  light, 
Floated  in  glory  'mid  the  liquid  air. 
— O  beautiful,  O  changeless  !     Thro'  my  dream 
I  see  ye  still,  and  still  your  solemn  heights — 
Celestial,  radiant,  in  eternal  calm — 


I2O  A    DREAM. 

Draw  up  mine  eyes,  brimming  with  yearning  tears, 
Where  fain  my  feet  would  follow  ! — Then,  as  now, 
Such  longing  filled  my  soul.     I  could  not  rest, 
And,  all  the  beauty  of  that  vale  forgot, 
I  set  my  feet  to  climb  the  barren  steep. 
Painful  each  step,  but  still  the  end  in  sight, 
I  climbed  unweariedly,  till  storms  arose ; 
And  whirling  gales,  and  floods,  and  darkness  dire 
Blinded  mine  eyes,  and  beat  me  to  the  ground  : 
Yet  still  I  struggled  on  ...   .  And  now,  methinks, 
I  dream  as  then,  and  with  my  closed  eyes 
I  see  the  shadowy  shape,  that  thro'  the  storm 
Hovered  above  me,  robed  in  shifting  white, 
Pointing  the  way,  and  sometimes  bending  down 
As  though  to  lift  me  in  its  cloudy  arms. 

I  feared  it  then,  mysterious  Messenger  ! 
And,  trembling,  shrank,  as  from  a  cold  embrace  : 
I  thought  it  some  dread  spectre  of  the  night, 
And  named  it  Death. — Oh  !   ignorant  ! 
For  now  I  know  it  for  an  angel  sent 
From  heav'n  in  love  to  guide  my  weary  feet ; 
And  what,  in  vague  affright,  seemed  terrible, 
Has  grown,  with  time,  to  be  the  dearest  hope  ! 

And  so  I  tread  the  stormy  path  of  life, 


LINES.  121 

And  as  in  dream  I  pass  through  shade  and  sun, 
With  heart  still  lifted  to  those  heights  sublime  : 
And  still  the  cloud-robed  One  attends  my  steps. 
From  day  to  day  more  lovingly  he  looks, 
More  radiant  his  eyes,  as  sun  thro'  mist, 
The  heav'nly  light  grows  nearer — half  I  wake — 
Oh  !  vision,  leave  me  not !   Oh  !   Angel,  come  ! 
Bear  me  aloft  upon  thy  snowy  wings, 
Gaze  down  into  my  soul  with  look  serene, 
And  I  will  close  my  eyes  once  more,  to  wake 
Where  dreams  become  reality — in  Heaven  ! 

FT.  W.,  Afril  29,  1866. 


LINES 

With  thanks  for  some  ivild-fl<rwers. 
(H.    E.) 

COME,  tell  me,  tell  me,  blossoms  fair, 
And  do  ye  no  sweet  message  bear 
From  one  who  loves  me  well  ? 


122  LINES. 

She  sends  no  written  word,  and  yet 
This  sweetly  scented  floweret — 
It  is  not  dumb  to  me. 

For  words  alone  are  hard  and  cold, 
The  fervid  spirit  scarce  can  mould 
Them  into  breathing  forms. 

A  look,  a  tone,  a  smile,  tell  more 
Of  all  the  heart's  strange,  hidden  lore 
Than  many  a  gilded  tome. 

A  faded  flower,  whose  perfume  still 
Doth  faintly  linger,  oft  will  fill 

The  heart  with  mem'ries  sweet. 

Tho'  form  and  hue  are  crushed  and  gone, 
The  soul  remains,  and  still  lives  on 
More  beautiful  than  they. 

Ah,  yes  !  when  earthly  blooms  depart, 
There  lives  a  perfume  of  the  heart 
Embalming  withered  joys  ! 


IN    MEMORIAM.  123 

And  so  I  keep  these  blossoms  fair, 
For  on  their  honeyed  breath  they  bear 
The  love  they  cannot  tell  ! 


IN   MEMORIAM. 
c.  s.  E. 

(May  17,   1866.) 

OUR  dear  one,  fading  from  our  sight  away 
Till  but  a  shadow  of  herself,  still  kept 

Her  loving  heart,  that  grew,  from  day  to  day, 
Thro'  pain  more  loving,  till  at  last  she  "  slept," 

Like  some  meek  blossom,  'neath  the  heel  of  Death, 
Whose  fragrance,  richer  that  'tis  bruised,  is  given, 

So,  smilingly,  she  yielded  up  her  breath, 

And,  leaving  Earth  the  sweeter,  rose  to  Heaven. 


124  THE    LYRE    AND    THE    CROSS. 

THE  LYRE  AND  THE  CROSS. 

(Aspiration  and  Peace — a  Dream  by  Starlight. ) 

'TlS  a  most  lovely  night !  a  night  when  dreams, 
Like  summer  fire-flies,  light  with  fitful  gleam 
The  dark,  mysterious  chambers  of  the  soul. 
Half  dreaming,  and  half  waking,  while  the  stars 
Shine  thro'  my  closed  lids  into  my  heart, 
And  fill  it  with  a  shimmering  radiance, 
Like  some  calm,  glassy  lake  at  eventide, 
Two  pictures  rise  before  me — both  most  fair. 

The  first  a  youth  with  glowing,  eloquent  eyes, 
Pale  cheek,  and  restless  mouth,  whose  smile  is  sweet — 
The  sweeter  for  the  sadness  underneath. — 
The  night-wind  sighs  among  the  distant  pines 
With  a  low,  wailing  music  ;  rustling  leaves, 
The  cricket's  chirp,  and  all  the  nameless  sounds 
That  haunt  a  summer's  night,  make  melody, 
While  throbbing  perfume  fills  the  pauses  in, 
And,  brimming  o'er  with  happiness,  a  bird 
Trills,  in  its  sleep,  a  broken  roundelay. 
— With  that  same  quiv'ring  smile,  'twixt  joy  and  pain, 


THE    LYRE    AND    THE    CROSS.  125 

He  hearkens,  while  on  high  his  gaze  is  fixed 
Where  Lyra  burns  amid  a  myriad  stars. 
Deeper  and  darker,  with  a  troubled  gleam 
Shooting  intensest  radiance,  beam  those  eyes, 
As  lightning  glances  o'er  a  storm-tossed  sea, 
And  thus  his  words  break  forth  :  "  Oh  !  beautiful, 
Too  beautiful  for  mortals  dumb  and  deaf ! 
This  glorious  harmony  of  singing  spheres 
That  echoes  from  thy  strings,  O  heav'nly  Harp  ! 
These  sweet  earth  melodies  that  blend,  and  flow 
Like  rippling  streams  into  the  billowy  sea — 
We  know  them  by  a  broken  chord  or  two 
That  strike  upon  our  heart-strings — out  of  tune — 
And  oft-times  make  a  discord.     Or,  if  more, 
The  strained,  frail  instrument  is  snapped  in  twain, 
Like  to  a  wind-harp  in  a  hurricane, 
And  thrills  into  an  ecstasy  of  death  ! 
Oh  !  why  these  longings  unfulfilled  !  this  strife 
Of  limitless  desire,  that  breaks  in  waves 
Against  the  hard  and  stony  shore  of  Time, 
With  an  unsatisfied  murmur  ebbing  back  ? 
O  God,  unloose  these  trammels,  set  me  free  ! 
This  soul  within,  this  spark  of  heav'nly  fire, 
Burns  thro'  the  casket  where  'tis  prisoned  up, 


126  THE    LYRE    AND    THE    CROSS. 

And  would  flame  upward,  to  the  Source  of  Light  !  " 
— Once  more  the  shining  of  those  eyes  I  see, 
Then,  in  an  instant,  quenched  in  tears,  they  fade, — 
One  picture  vanishes,  another  comes. 

And  this  time,  Age  stands  musing  'neath  the  stars. 
With  hoary  locks,  and  leaning  on  a  staff, 
He  gazes  upward,  lost  in  peaceful  thought  : 
And  though  the  Lyre  still  shines,  his  eyes  are  fixed 
Upon  a  constellation  that  but  now  I  see — 
A  Cross,  half-veiled  beneath  a  mist  of  stars. 
And  now  I  see  it  is  the  self-same  face, 
But  with  a  wondrous  change — the  poet  then, 
And  here  but  now  merged  into  the  saint — 
Both  those,  and  this — the  fiery  eye  not  quenched, 
But  burning  like  a  holy  altar-flame  ; 
The  lips  closed  in  such  sweet  serenity 
God's  seal  seemed  set  on  them,  a  pledge  of  peace. — 

Here  would  I  cease,  in  meditation  wrapt, 
And  read  this  lesson  in  the  tranquil  stars  : 
"  'Tis  vain  to  struggle  with  mortality, 
And  tear  the  spirit's  wings  against  its  cage. 
To  wait  in  patience,  and  with  faith  endure, 
Is,  in  God's  sight,  sublime  and  beautiful. 
Sorrow  must  purify  the  soul  from  dross, 


A    ROSEBUD    IN    A    LETTER.  I2/ 

And  Faith  give  wings  to  Aspiration's  self, 
Before  it  finds  rest  in  the  Infinite. — 
The  cross  must  first  in  lowliness  be  borne, 
And  then  in  triumph  shall  the  Harp  resound  !  " 

July  8,  1866. 


A  ROSEBUD  IN  A  LETTER. 

A  KISS  I'd  send  thee,  dearest  one, 

But  send  a  rose  instead  ; 
For  kisses  fade  in  letters,  love  ! 

But  this  is  sweet,  tho'  dead. 

This  morn  I  plucked  it,  bathed  in  dew, 

Bright  as  a  smile  thro'  tears  : 
Now,  while  I  gaze,  amid  the  leaves 

A  face  more  bright  appears. 

The  blushing  cheek,  the  perfumed  breath — 
Ah,  me  !  I  thought  'twas  you  ! 

.  .  .  Nay,  don't  be  angry,  sweet !  methinks 
You'll  find  the  kiss  there  too  ! 

Sept.  19,  1866.  v 


128  SONG    OF    THE    SEEDS. 


SPRING  YEARNINGS. 

THRO'  Nature  breathes  some  subtle  influence 

That  wakes  within  the  soul  a  clearer  sense 

Of  the  invisible  truths  that  haunt  our  lives, 

And,  deeper  than  the  coral-seeker  dives 

In  Indian  seas,  lie,  beautiful  and  strange, 

Far  down  beneath  the  passions'  ceaseless  change. 

Often  it  seems,  in  the  first  days  of  spring, 
As  if  the  very  grass  were  murmuring 
A  whispered  song,  mysteriously  sweet, 
And  the  brown  seeds  beneath  our  careless  feet 
Say  the  same  language  that  our  souls  would  speak, 
And  strive  to  find  the  very  things  we  seek. 


SONG   OF   THE   SEEDS. 

'Tis  so  dark,  so  dark  here  under  the  ground  ! 

We  reach  and  we  struggle  we  know  not  where  ! 
We  long  for  something  we  have  not  found, 

We  seek  and  we  find  not,  but  cannot  despair ! 


SONG    OF    THE    SEEDS.  I2Q 

It  is  warm  and  sweet  here  under  the  earth, 
And  so  peaceful  too — why  cannot  we  stay  ! . 

What  is  this  change  that  is  named  a  birth  ? 

And  what  is  that  wonderful  thing  called  the  Day  ? 

But  a  power  is  on  us  :  we  may  not  wait ; 

Within  us  we  feel  it  struggle  and  thrill — 
While  upward  we  reach  to  find  our  fate, 

And  this  ceaseless,  mysterious  want  to  fulfil. 

They  say  that  at  last  we  shall  reach  the  Air — 
Will  breathing  be  freedom,  and  Light  be  Life  ? 

What  mystic  change  shall  we  meet  with  there 

When  the  blossom  shall  crown  this  mute,  strange 
strife  ? 

So,  ending  answerless,  the  song  is  done — 
The  song  so  oft  upon  the  earth  begun, 
Whose  closing  and  triumphant  harmonies 
Shall  ne'er  be  sounded  but  beyond  the  skies. 

May  26,  1867. 


130  LINES. 

LINES 

Suggested  by  EDWIN  WHITE'S  study  for  a  picture  of  "  Fra  Angelica 
at  Prayer" 

Go  forth,  meek  picture  !  speak  unto  the  world  ! 

—Thy  sober  tints  refresh,  amid  the  glare — 
Go,  tell  the  restless  shallow-hearted  throng 

The  story  of  the  artist-monk  at  prayer. 

Mayhap  'twill  listen  :  though  the  tale  be  old, 
'Tis  sweet  as  faded  violets,  and  will  last — 

Like  the  Fra's  angels,  clad  in  vestments  quaint, 
Whose  tender,  rapturous  faces  have  no  Past. 

Ah  !  might  these  pictured  forms  impress  the  heart, 
And  this  pale,  humble  figure  at  the  shrine 

Draw  down  upon  the  age  what  for  himself 

He  sought,  and  found — Love's  effluence  divine  ! 

The  world,  a  Titan,  with  its  hundred  hands — 

Struck  blind  by  Pride  beneath  the  blaze  of  noon — 

Reaches  out  wearily,  and  longs  for  light 
In  its  own  darkness,  void  of  stars  or  moon. 


TO    A.    D.  131 

Restless,  unsatisfied, — aspiring  ?  yes  ! 

But  seeking  Self— self-hating  while  it  seeks — 
To  such,  a  quick'ning  fount  'mid  desert  sands, 

This  picture,  in  its  pure,  cool  beauty,  speaks. 

Oh  !  might  all  learn  of  him  whom  Art  so  blessed  ! 

Might  all — the  ignorant,  faithless,  and  afraid, 
The  frail,  fame-loving,  disappointed,  proud — 

Know,  that  before  he  dared  to  paint,  he  prayed  ! 

June  18,  1868. 


To  A.  D. 

With  a  Wedding-Present  of  a  Clock. 

GIFTS  are  the  language  that  we  give  our  love  ; 

Words  perish,  but  the  soul  that  speaks  them,  never  I 
So,  Addie  !  take  my  gift,  remembering  still 

This  is  for  Time,  but  friendship  lasts  forever  ! 

LENOX,  June  25,  1868. 


I32  A    SONG. 

A  SONG 

DEDICATED  TO  L.  L. 

Suggested  by  an  incident  during  a  country  walk. 

MY  Psyche,  with  dreamy  eyes, 

Half  woman,  half  a  child, 
Once  caught  a  butterfly  by  surprise — • 

Smiling — nor  knowing  she  smiled  ! 

He  hovered  about  her  mouth, 

As  'twere  a  rosebud  red  ; 
Her  breath  was  the  breath  of  the  south, 

Sunshine  the  hair  of  her  head. 

She  wooed  him  not,  but  he  came — 
She  knew  not  she  was  fair — 

But  he  brushed  by  her  cheek  like  a  flame, 
Leaving  the  blush-stain  there  ! 

Alas  !  for  the  fluttering  thing, 

His  plumage  all  despoiled  ! 
Alas  !  for  the  butterfly  wing, 

Rainbow-hued  once,  now  so  soiled  1 


A    SONG.  133 


But  ah  !  for  the  lily-cheek, 
Flushed  into  sudden  bloom  ! 

For  beauty  she  thought  not  to  seek, 
Ripened  through  others'  doom. 

LEBANON,  Aug.  5,  1868. 
12 


PROSE. 


THE  POETRY  OF  PERFUMES. 

IT  is  better  put  into  prose — yes  !  Who  would 
think  of  making  rhyme-cages  to  hold  those  evanes- 
cent sweetnesses,  gilt  be  the  bars  ever  so  finely  with 
dainty  adjective  or  cunningly  twisted  metaphor — a 
fretwork  of  shining  words  to  shut  in  the  invisible  ! 
Rhyme  the  orange-blossom  with  the  rose,  the  violet 
with  the  mignonette,  but  let  the  poetry  stay  in  your 
heart,  and  not  scatter  its  hidden  beauty  from  your 
lips,  too  rude  to  know  under  what  seal  of  delicate 
kissing  petals  was  solemnized  that  mystical  marriage 
of  the  essences ! 

Truly,  the  flowers  have  secrets  that  we  know  not 
of,  and  it  is  not  strange  we  woo  them  with  murmured 
songs  to  disclose  their  sweet  magic,  as  the  sorcerers 
of  old  crooned  rhythmic  snatches  of  cabalistic  lore  to 
evoke  the  shadows  of  coming  days  from  their  weird 
caldron-smoke  !  Charms  of  music  are  always  the 
most  potent — it  may  be  because  in  every  song  there 
are  woven  some  few  threads  of  the  great  under-har- 


138  THE    POETRY    OF    PERFUMES. 

mony  that  sways  the  universe  into  a  sympathy  of 
spheres.  Yes,  music,  music !  What  a  panting  for 
expression  stirs  through  the  earth-silences  !  What  a 
longing  for  the  voice  !  Strange  that  perfume,  mute 
that  it  is,  should  have  this  musical  echo  ;  though  the 
answer  be  not  in  speech,  but  in  yearning !  But  this 
very  perfume — an  up-breathing,  an  aspiration — is  the 
true  flower-utterance,  and  melts  so  into  the  divine 
harmony,  where  waves  of  sound  and  sight  and  breath 
mingle  their  varying  chords  in  a  glad  sympathy  of 
life  and  motion,  and  the  solemn  dance  of  the  stars  is 
its  own  music !  Yes,  perfume  is  the  voice  of  the 
flowers,  and  they  sing  their  own  song  amid  the  mighty 
chorus,  perhaps  the  sweeter  that  no  mortal  ears  can 
hear  the  low  pulsing  of  their  harmonious  breath  ! 

But  for  the  prose.  Ah,  the  poetry  says  so  little, 
the  brilliant  words  crowd  close  to  hide  the  meaning, 
and  claim  the  admiration  for  themselves.  Just  to 
forget  the  saying  for  the  meaning,  or  to  find  the  say- 
ing that  shall  forget  itself.  Let  us  be  silent,  like  the 
flowers,  and  breathe,  not  speak,  living  only,  drawing 
in  strength  and  beauty,  like  them,  from  sun  and  rain 
and  warm  enwrapping  earth,  and  leaving  our  songs  to 
the  birds,  who  were  made  for  melody — not  knowing, 


THE  POETRY  OF  PERFUMES.      139 

ourselves,  that  in  that  very  breath  which  we  draw  lies 
the  great  gift  of  utterance ;  that  while  we  think  our 
dumb  lives  are  but  receivings,  they  are  also  givings. 
We  inhale,  but  we  also  exhale, — there  is  no  real  living 
without  both,  no  opening  of  the  soul-corolla  to  God's 
glad  gifts  from  heaven,  without  the  answering  incense 
of  a  perfume — though  to  the  heart  that  breaks  be- 
neath the  burdening  sweetness  of  the  blessing  it  be 
only  a  longing,  forever  unexpressed — that  offered  and 
accepted  prayer ! 

People  do  not  write  much  about  perfumes.  It 
must  be  because  they  say  themselves.  But  there 
are  many  beautiful  things  that  might  be  said  about 
them.  Alas  !  all  our  saying  is  about  something — 
to  utter  the  thing,  that  is  what  we  cannot  do.  It 
utters  itself  again :  and  that  is  the  reason  of  the 
creating  in  separateness — "one  glory  of  the  moon,  and 
another  of  the  sun,  and  another  of  the  stars" — each 
an  individuality,  though  all  the  utterance  of  God :  all 
made  by  one  Word,  yet  each  with  its  own  language. 
Therefore  the  Spirit  gave  many  tongues  to  the  apos- 
tles by  one  Divine  inbreathing.  There  is  room  for  all, 
and  a  need,  moreover,  for  every  one. 

Thus  high  does  the  theme  lead  us  ;  and  we  cannot, 


I4O  THE    POETRY    OF    PERFUMES. 

if  we  would,  draw  back  from  the  thoughts  that  rise 
like  the  very  perfume  that  we  write  of,  an  aspiring 
incense  toward  the  throne  of  the  Invisible. 

Did  you  ever  think  of  it  before — how  beautiful  it  is, 
the  "  offering  of  a  sweet-smelling  savor"  in  the  sight 
of  God  ?  How  much  it  means,  this  symbol  of  a 
silent  aspiring,  an  ascending  smoke  of  sweetness,  the 
essence  of  a  burning  heart ! 

— There  is  an  intoxication  in  perfume  :  even  while 
I  write,  the  sprig  of  honeysuckle  I  gathered  half  an 
hour  ago  fills  the  room  with  its  drowsy  spiciness,  and 
I  can  hardly  think.  I  close  my  eyes,  and  existence 
seems  merged  in  one  dreamy  Now,  where  being  takes 
the  place  of  doing,  and  the  joy  of  consciousness,  like 
that  trance-like  pause  between  sleeping  and  waking, 
is  in  knowing  you  are  on  the  verge  of  the  uncon- 
scious. I  wonder  if  the  Brahmins  found  their  first 
type  of  the  bliss  of  annihilation  in  the  over-mastering 
fragrance  of  some  dream-compelling  tropic  bloom  ! 

So  perfume  gives  a  symbol  of  two  opposites  :  one  a 
worship  which  arises  out  of  life,  its  true  essence  and 
aroma,  a  religion  which  acknowledges  the  actual,  find- 
ing in  faith  the  complement  of  life,  not  its  substitute  ; 
the  other  a  worship  too,  but  a  mystic  ecstasy,  where 


THE    POETRY    OF    PERFUMES.  141 

prayer  is  the*  All,  and  life  and  life's  work  a  fading  film, 
obscuring  the  glory  of  the  unnamable  Ideal. 

But  no  more  of  this  now.  The  lotos-scent  is  too  rich, 
too  subtly  sweet — its  dreamy  atmosphere  too  irresist- 
ible. Forgetfulness  is  not  Elysium,  spite  of  the  fabled 
Lethe.  Who  stoops  beside  those  dark  waves,  shudders  ; 
for  then  only  does  he  taste  the  utter  deep  of  Death. 
Worse  a  thousand  times  than  the  fiery  waves  of  Phle- 
gethon,  the  slow-sliding,  engulfing  blackness  of  the 
river  of  Oblivion  ! 

Thank  God  we  are  not  heathens,  and  our  heaven 
shuts  not  love  and  memory  out ! 

Thus  far  the  heavy  odors  of  the  East  have  led  our 
wandering  imaginations.  Poor  spirit  of  staid  prose, 
how  vainly  wert  thou  invoked  !  Fancy's  warm  breath, 
whispering  in  thine  ear,  has  bewitched  thy  senses,  and 
vainly  dost  thou  strive  to  speak  in  her  melodious 
tongue  !  Thou  art  a  sober  Western  fairy,  dwelling  in 
the  clovered  fields,  drinking  no  richer  draughts  than 
the  dew  distils  from  clustering  sweet-fern  or  wild  eg- 
lantine ;  and  claimest  for  thy  domain  no  crimson  wil- 
derness of  Persian  roses  !  Of  such  things  hast  thou 
heard,  perhaps,  and  in  some  dainty  crystal  casket  hast 
beheld  the  precious  drop  of  attar,  the  essence  from 


142  THE    POETRY    OF    PERFUMES. 

the  crushing  of  a  thousand  flowers — a  sovereign  gift, 
truly,  the  embodied  spirit,  indestructible,  of  so  many 
fleeting  lives  that  died  to  perpetuate  their  own  sweet- 
ness—  but  thine  own  is  thine  own,  nevertheless,  O 
shrinking,  tender,  veiled  genius  of  the  North  ! 

What  the  world  means  by  perfume  is  that  evident, 
substantial  thing  which  can  be  poured  in  luscious 
drops  upon  the  heavy  air,  faint  with  a  smoke  of 
sandal-wood  and  precious  gums,  as  in  Cairo,  where 
the  swarthy  Arab,  sitting  cross-legged  in  his  nar- 
row booth,  smiles,  and  burns  for  you  his  dainty 
store — myrrh  and  frankincense  for  you,  and  gold  for 
him — a  costly  incense  before  your  desiring  nostrils, 
while  the  donkeys  push  past  you  in  the  crowded 
street,  and  the  motley  throng  in  the  bazaar  gaze  at 
your  Prankish  countenance  with  curious  eyes  !  The 
air  is  dim  with  smoke  and  slanting  sunshine,  and 
you  stand  a  moment  longer,  when  the  shrill  bar- 
gain is  concluded,  drinking  in  with  every  breath  the 
seductive  atmosphere  of  the  warm  South  !  But  the 
air  grows  stifling  after  a  while,  and  you  are  glad  to 
escape,  and  seek  the  shelter  of  some  garden  court, 
where  the  cool  plash  of  a  fountain  soothes  the  over- 
loaded senses,  and  a  faint  fragrance  of  invisible  acacia- 


THE  POETRY  OF  PERFUMES.      143 

blossoms  comes  and  goes  with  the  rising  and  falling 
of  the  breeze.  There  is  a  tree  near  you  with  a  flock 
of  scarlet  birds  perched  on  it.  Whisht  !  they  do  not 
move,  though  you  stretch  out  your  hand  to  make  them 
fly.  They  are  only  the  blossoms  of  the  euphorbia 
which  in  our  conservatories  grows  on  a  low  bush,  and 
is  even  then  so  splendid.  It  was  a  bird  with  flaming 
wings,  yet  songless,  and  now  it  is  a  dazzling  flower, 
but  without  a  fragrance.  Breathless,  soulless,  it  is  like 
a  tropic  noon,  crushing  life  to  silence  under  the  inten- 
sity of  its  own  acme  of  existence.  It  is  the  hush  that 
comes  in  the  very  centre  of  the  tumult  of  sensation, 
the  inevitable  reaction  of  the  extreme.  Strange  as 
the  contrast  may  seem,  it  is  but  natural  that  some  of 
the  most  gorgeous  blossoms  of  the  East  should  have 
no  soul  of  perfume. 

I  said  the  world  puts  its  perfumes  into  bottles,  and 
labels  them,  and  pours  an  amber  drop  upon  fine  linen, 
and  thinks  it  has  caught  the  winged  charm  of  sweetness. 
The  world  labels  many  things,  and  thinks  it  has  got 
the  essences,  loves  and  griefs,  tied  up  in  separate  par- 
cels, and  marked  "So  much  a  dose,  Miss  Miihlb.ach," 
"  So  many  drops  fine  distilled — dangerous — Guy  Liv- 
ingstone " — but  the  true  sentiments  are  not  to  be  shut 


144      THE  POETRY  OF  PERFUMES. 

up  in  novel-bindings,  nor  the  pure  perfumes  to  be  found 
among  Lubin's  extracts.  Not  to  speak  of  musk  and 
patchouli — vulgar  scents— the  yellow-covered  Brad- 
don  type — there  is  no  danger  in  carrying  out  the  fig- 
ure. Beautiful  as  are  the  delineations  of  the  heart  in 
the  plastic  hand  of  genius,  there  is  no  poetry  to  match 
the  aspirations  of  a  single  soul,  no  drama  and  no  ro- 
mance equal  in  intensity  to  life,  and  art  has  no  possi- 
bilities equal  to  those  of  being. 

So  we  come  back  to  the  sweet  field-perfumes — that 
cannot  be  caught — charm  the  charmer  never  so  wise- 
ly. Their  beauty  is  in  their  shyness. 


THE  PROSE  EDDA. 

April  9.  I  have  been  reading  lately  the  Prose  Edda, 
and  it  is  not  without  awe  that,  even  in  so  obscure  a 
form,  one  traces  the  outline  of  the  primal  conception 
of  a  God  and  a  religion  in  the  instinct  of  a  race.  Like 
a  giant-statue,  half-hewn  out  of  a  rugged  mountain,  it 
stands  sublimely  in  the  background  of  the  Scandina- 
vian history,  gathering  about  its  head  the  clouds  and 
thunder  ;  wrapped  in  brooding  mists  one  day,  another 
stern  and  cold  against  the  wind-swept  sky  ;  hoary  with 
snow  and  bearded  with  ragged  pine,  yet  flushing  some- 
times with  an  evanescent  tenderness  in  the  rare  glow  of 
sunrise  or  of  sunset.  Alas  !  now  but  a  heap  of  sense- 
less stone,  overgrown  with  superstition,,  shrouded  in 
decay,  crumbled  into  forgetfulness  ;  it  was  once  the 
image  of  a  God, — it  breathed  once  with  the  inspiration 
of  a  faith  !  A  blind  groping,  after  all,  it  was,  that 
caught  but  at  the  cloudy  skirts  of  His  enfolding  robe, 
the  universe  ;  and  felt  Him  for  a  little  while  within  the 
mystery ;  then,  keeping  the  mystery,  lost  Him  ! 


146  THE    PROSE    EDDA. 

Ah,  so  it  runs  through  all  the  religions  of  the  world  ! 
Many  forms,  but  the  same  Spirit — many  glimpses,  and 
in  the  end  one  Revelation.  The  Spirit  is  too  great 
for  the  forms — it  shatters  them,  and  overflows  them, 
and  casts  them  utterly  away  at  last,  but  still  some  im- 
press lingers  on  the  broken  shells  of  the  glorious  shap- 
ing influence.  So  may  we  wander  on  the  shores  of  a 
spent  ocean,  and  not  unprofitably  study  the  fragments 
of  a  forgotten  age  ! 

This  religion  of  the  Scandinavians,  as  it  is  perhaps 
the  grandest,  is  the  saddest  of  the  mythologic  dream- 
weavings  of  the  world.  Yet  in  its  very  sadness  there 
is  something  prophetic,  and  so  with  a  locking-forward 
and  an  aspiration,  it  cannot  be  all  sad  !  Wonderfully 
in  both  does  it  show  the  inner  sentiment  of  a  people. 
These  Northerns,  from  whom  we  draw  some  of  the 
most  precious  drops  of  our  heart-blood ;  these  wild 
old  Vikings  of  the  seas  ;  these  fair-browed,  blond- 
haired  heroes,  ice-bound  in  rock  or  island  fastness 
through  the  gloom  of  tardy  winters,  with  harp  and 
song  and  feast  celebrating  past  triumphs  of  adven- 
turous summers,  when,  with  swords  for  sickles,  they 
reaped  a  golden  harvest  from  the  flashing,  perilous 
waves  ;  these  rough  and  hardy  men,  warriors  by  whom 


THE    PROSE    EDDA.  147 

no  right  of  nations  was  respected,  yet  lawgivers  whose 
code  is  the  wonder  of  a  later,  hardly  more  perfect 
civilization  ;  defenders  of  the  poor,  respecters  of  wo- 
men, steadfast  in  friendship,  implacable  in  enmity; 
with  a  passion  for  war,  and  an  insatiate  thirst  for  con- 
quest, yet  looking  with  cold  blue  eyes  disdainfully 
upon  the  gorgeous  luxuries  of  the  seductive  South  ; 
this  strange  people,  full  of  contradictions,  yet  always 
consistent  in  the  stern  virtues  of  a  stoical  heroism, 
struggled,  amid  the  blindness  of  their  northern  snows, 
towards  a  religion  which  the  symmetrically-minded 
Greek  could  scarce  conceive,  even  while,  with  delicate 
chiselings  of  marble  and  of  ivory  and  gold,  he  strove 
to  fashion  out  an  image  of  the  Thunderer.  In  clear- 
cut,  classic  verse  he  shapes  a  temple  to  his  pleasure- 
loving  gods,  and  men  admire  the  columns  and  the 
architraves,  but  enter  to  find  an  emptiness  !  Only  by 
the  yearning,  mournful  music  of  the  hidden  "  chorus  " 
do  we  know  there  was  a  worship,  do  we  believe  must 
have  been — once  indwelling — the  shadow  of  a  God  ! 

This  other,  too,  is  fallen— this  mightily- conceived 
ideal  of  which  I  speak,  but  it  is  a  grand  ruin  still,  and 
I  propose  to  linger  for  a  while  among  its  lonely  arches, 
and  in  the  pale  Northern  moonlight,  cloud-disturbed, 


148  THE    PROSE    EDDA. 

to  watch  the  flitting  of  some  ghostly  shape,  and  re- 
people  for  -a  time  the  hollow-sounding  vistas  of  the 
Past. 

The  race  of  ^Esir,  strong  and  brave  and  beautiful, 
ruling  within  the  golden  halls  of  Asgard,  the  shadowy 
Giant-brood,  lurking  in  cavernous  glooms  of  the 
abyss ;  the  heroes  gathering  with  joyful  clangor  of 
arms  in  shield-roofed,  glittering  Walhalla  ;  the  strug- 
gling earth-nations,  over  whose  crimson  battle-fields 
hover  the  dark  Valkyrior,  choosing  whose  shall  be  the 
souls  of  the  slain ;  the  elf-world,  whose  transparent 
mystery  envelops  all  with  a  permeating  consciousness 
of  spirituality ;  these  vast,  vague  peoplings  of  the 
universe  are  at  one  with  the  grandeur  of  the  cosmo- 
gony. 

A  shadowy  abyss,  "  full  of  whirlwinds  and  fleeting 
mists;  "  a  darknesa  lit  up  by  "  sparks  and  flakes  of 
fire,"  a  clangor  of  confused  and  mighty  sounds,  echo- 
ing as  from  a  whirlpool-caldron  underneath — this  is 
chaos.  Twelve  rivers  flow  from  the  shadowy  region — 
one,  "the  resounding,"  pouring  its  dark  waves  past 
the  gate  of  the  abode  of  death.  By  some  mysterious 
dividing  force,  the  frozen  vapors  gather  toward  a 
vague,  vast,  gloom-encompassed  North  ;  on  the  other 


THE    PROSE    EDDA.  149 

verge  there  stands  a  flaming,  radiant  region,  and  be- 
tween, a  space  "  as  calm  and  light  as  wind-still  air." 
Concerning  this  fiery  kingdom  which  stands  without 
the  cosmogony — ' '  First  of  all,  there  was  in  the  south- 
ern sphere  the  world  called  Muspell " — we  have  no 
explanation — we  cannot  go  behind  its  fiery  veil, 
"none  can  enter  but  those  whose  home  is  there." 
Even  this  mighty  mythologic  intuition  dared  not  pene- 
trate into  the  darkness  of  the  Genesis,  when  as  yet 
Light  was  not — and  the  Hebrew  Moses  only  knew 
and  told  of  that  sublime  first  birth  of  Creation, 
when  "  the  Spirit  of  God  moved  upon  the  face  of  the 
waters,  and  God  said,  Let  there  be  light,  and  there 
was  light." 

But  here  in  the  Edda,  "  at  the  beginning,"  which 
was  not  a  beginning,  we  have  the  foreshadowing  of  an 
end — which  is  not  an  end  !  For  with  a  flaming  fal- 
chion sits  at  the  entrance  of  this  dazzling  impenetrable 
region  a  dark  shape,  who  waits  and  lowers,  till  in  the 
"  Twilight  "  of  destruction  he  shall  issue  forth  to  com- 
bat, and  before  him  shall  fall  the  vanquished  armies 
of  the  gods,  and  the  shattered  fragments  of  a  universe 
in  flames  !  But  of  this  again.  From  the  meeting  of 

opposing  forces,  in  the  first  drops  of  condensing  vapor, 
13* 


ISO  THE    PROSE    EDDA. 

comes  forth  the  germ — then  the  gigantic  Power  per- 
sonified— of  Nature  ;  in  the  form  of  Ymir,  father  of 
the  giant-brood,  crouching  their  huge  limbs,  swathed 
in  frost  and  darkness,  in  the  hidden  places  of  the  uni- 
verse. This  Ymir,  from  whose  bones  the  earth  was 
fashioned,  whose  blood  furnished  forth  the  sea,  as  he 
fell  with  his  mighty  bulk,  slain  by  the  arrows  of  "  the 
blithe  gods,"  into  the  abysmal  deep  wherein  floated 
the  first  shadow  of  a  creation — is  he  not  with  his  off- 
spring the  embodiment  of  the  material  forces,  subdued 
by  the  spiritual,  indeed,  but  mighty  even  when  van- 
quished, and  underlying  the  visible  world-forms  with 
a  power  not  less  great  for  being  obscure?  They  have 
a  great  charm  for  the  imagination — these  old  monsters 
lurking  in  mysterious  depths  of  confusion  and  of 
nothingness,  their  huge  limbs,  formless  and  vast  as 
chaos,  instinct  with  a  half-conscious  vitality,  the  more 
tremendous  that  it  is  unexercised  : — Strange  primeval 
stirrings  of  the  elemental  life-essence  !  Unshapcn, 
immense,  inexplicable,  they  lie  at  the  bottom  of  the 
bottomless,  bound  with  the  chains  of  sleep.  Like  the 
wolf  Fenrir,  one  of  their  mighty  brood,  conquered,  yet 
not  overcome,  they  wait  for  the  time  which  shall 
break  the  fetter  woven  of  silence,  "smooth  and  soft 


THE    PROSE    EDDA.  151 

as  a  silken  string,"  yet  strong  with  the  strength  of 
the  god-like. 

The  old  story — the  evil  and  the  good  in  contest, 
Nature  and  Divinity  at  war.  Here  there  is  no  recon- 
ciliation— strife  to  the  bitter  end — a  purification,  dimly 
dreamed  of,  yet  "so  as  by  fire  "• — a  new  heavens  and 
a  new  earth  to  come — but  what  a  vast  destruction  !  A 
religion  of  war  : — there  is  but  one  religion  of  peace  ! 
And,  in  that,  matter  and  mind  are  not  at  variance, 
body  and  spirit  are  as  one,  joined,  not  severed,  in  the 
holy  bond  of  being  !  Ah,  I  fear  me  much  that  there 
are  many  heathens  among  us  still ! 

But  to  return.  In  this  sketch  of  mine,  where  I 
draw  the  shadows  first,  there  must  be  mention  made 
of  Loki,  the  deceiver,  and  of  his  terrible  offspring, 
Fenrir,  Hela,  and  the  Midgard  serpent.  His  name 
means  Light,  or  rather  Flame — strange  likeness  this 
to  the  Lucifer  myth.  Beautiful,  yet  sad !  The  genius 
of  evil  is  but  fallen  light — the  Son  of  the  Morn- 
ing becomes  the  leader  of  the  hosts  of  darkness  !  The 
brothers  of  Loki  are  the  Destroyer,  and  the  Death- 
blind.  By  his  wife,  Foreboding  Anguish,  he  has 
three  children,  of  whom  the  monster-serpent,  encir- 
cling the  world,  is  one  ;  another,  Fenrir,  the  "  dwel- 


152  THE    PROSE    EDDA. 

ler  in  the  abyss;  and  the  third  is  Hela,  or  Death." 
Her  hall  is  the  Wide-Storming  ;  Hunger  is  her  table  ; 
Starvation,  her  knife  ;  Delay,  her  man  ;  Slowness, 
her  maid  ;  Precipice,  her  threshold  ;  and  Burning  An- 
guish, the  hangings  of  her  bed.  The  one  half  of  her 
body  is  livid,  the  other  half  the  color  of  human  flesh. 
She  may  therefore  easily  be  recognized,  the  more  so, 
as  she  is  of  a  dreadfully  stern  and  grim  countenance. 
So  runs  the  Edda,  in  its  quaint  and  terrible  simpli- 
city. 

Gladly  turn  we  from  the  gloomy  Niflheim  to  the 
shining-roofed  Asgard,  where  dwell  the  glorious  race 
of  JEsir,  with  Odin,  the  All-Father.  He,  the  King 
and  Leader  of  Armies,  "who  bindeth  together  all 
things,"  "  on  whom  all  things  depend,"  sits  aloft  in 
his  golden  mansion,  and  from  his  throne  seeth  all 
things,  and,  looking,  comprehends  ! 

"What  is  the  way  from  earth  to  heaven?"  asks 
the  wandering  mortal,  to  whom  in  the  allegory  all  the 
marvellous  tale  of  gods  and  men  is  told.  "  Knowest 
thou  not  that  ?  simple  is  it  to  answer !  Bifrost,  the 
rainbow  !  "  A  slender  bridge,  thou  thinkest ;  but 
strong,  for  over  it  the  gods  ride  daily  to  judgment, 
with  a  trampling  of  many-footed  steeds.  Thor,  only, 


THE    PROSE    EDDA  153 

rides  not.  His  lightning-shod  courser  would  break  the 
tremulous  arch,  and  scatter  with  fierce  hoofs  the  deli- 
cately-woven hues  into  a  tempestuous  cloud  of  angry 
sparks.  Cunningly-built  it  is,  and  strong,  this  three- 
fold bridge  of  light,  and  with  the  crimson  flaming  of 
its  deepest  fire,  it  burns  impassable  to  all  save  the 
profane  feet  of  the  giants — those  of  heavenly  origin. 

The  meeting-place  of  the  gods  is  under  the  ash 
Iggdrasyl.  The  mystic  tree  of  existence  has  three 
roots,  one  penetrating  to  the  abode  of  death.  Under 
this  raves  unceasingly  the  "clanging  whirlpool"  of 
the  gulf  of  chaos.  A  shapeless,  shadowy  monster, 
Nidhogg,  gnaws  at  this  root,  and  a  venomous  cluster 
of  serpents  hangs  about  it,  striving  to  destroy  the  un- 
destroyable.  The  Tree  of  Life  rises  above  all  enemies 
victorious,  with  the  "splendor  of  its  verdure"  un- 
harmed, even  in  the  midst  of  the  last  consuming,  and 
shall  outlive  the  gods  !  The  principle  of  Life,  im- 
perishable, ever  vernal,  draws  its  substance  even  from 
death,  and  evolves  a  glory  and  a  beauty  from  dark- 
ness and  horror  and  confusion. 

The  second  root  is  over  the  abode  of  the  Frost- 
Giants,  and  is  fed  by  Mimir's  well,  the  fount  of  Wis- 
dom. Here,  amid  the  vast  hidden  powers  of  Nature, 


154  THE    PROSE    EDDA. 

the  Tree  of  Life  drinks  deep  of  the  secret  source  of 
knowledge.  Wisdom,  underneath  the  elements,  an 
ever-living  spring,  supplying  sustenance  to  Life  itself — 
it  is  a  grand  idea  !  The  ancient  Mimir  sits  beside  the 
well  and  quaffs  daily  of  its  waters — gray-beard  oracle 
of  the  gods  !  There  is  a  myth  that  Odin  came  once 
to  the  wisdom  fount !  and  desired  a  draught,  but  none 
could  he  have  till  one  of  his  eyes  was  left  in  pledge 
for  it.  Therefore  at  the  bottom  of  this  well  lies  one 
of  the  eyes  of  the  All-seeing.  What  a  brightness 
there  must  be  there,  shining  up  out  of  soundless  depth 
of  dark — and  what  a  divine  drink  that  must  be,  in 
which  was  dissolved  that  mystic  treasure — a  richer 
than  Cleopatra's  pearl ! 

Up  to  heaven  reaches  the  third  root  of  Iggdrasyl, 
over  the  holy  Urdar  fount,  where  sit  the  three  Noras, 
who  fix  the  lifetime  of  all  men.  Daily  they  sprinkle 
the  tree  of  Life  with  water  from  the  fountain  of  Eter- 
nity, and  it  sheds  the  moisture  down  in  clear-dropping 
dew  upon  the  dales  of  earth. 


FRO  MA    LETTER.  155 

FROM  A  LETTER 

TO   A.    L.    B. 

— So  you  are  reading  Swedenborg  ?  I  am  glad  you 
told  me,  because  you  know  how  I  was  fascinated  by 
the  glimpse  of  Symbolism  that  came  across  me  last 
winter.  And  yet  you  have  read  him  first !  Perhaps 
I  had  better  not,  now  ;  for  although  I  don't  expect  to 
believe  in  him,  I  shrink  a  little  from  being  disen- 
chanted. I  have  a  sort  of  ideal  Swedenborg  in  my 
mind,  built  up,  perhaps,  out  of  my  book  of  "Colors," 
and  I  am  a  little  afraid  of  a  ray  of  sober  sunshine  ! 
He  would  never  be  a  seer  for  me,  but  I  should  like  to 
fancy  him  a  seer,  in  some  part,  for  himself!  Cer- 
tainly there  are  wonderful  analogies  in  nature,  figures 
of  speech,  whereby  day  and  night  "show  knowledge" 
to  the  mind  that  seizes  the  inner  meanings.  Things 
that  seem  utterly  material,  so  often  by  a  poetic  flash 
become  endowed  with  a  life  all  spirit — the  lower  turn- 
ing into  a  symbol  of  the  higher,  no  more  itself,  but 
the  expression  of  an  infinite  truth.  And  it  is  very 
natural,  when  we  feel  so  vividly  sometimes  these  har- 


156  FROM    A    LETTER. 

monies  of  Nature,  wherein  body  and  soul  have  a  re- 
ciprocal life,  to  look  for  a  soul  in  every  form,  inani- 
mate or  not,  forcing  the  intellect  to  accept  one  always, 
whether  the  intentions  do  or  not.  When  we  know 
that  there  is  a  divine  unity  between  the  creation  and 
the  creating  Mind,  we  are  not  satisfied  without  seek- 
ing the  interpretations  to  all  these  material  things. 
The  difficulty  lies,  I  think,  in  supposing  we  can  do  it 
by  a  definite  effort.  The  revelation  comes  from  the 
spirit,  which  illumines  the  physical  types  ;  but  if  we 
keep  looking  at  the  types,  by-and-by  they  will  become 
meaningless.  It  is  the  difference  between  metaphor 
and  mythology — first  the  poetic  form  of  an  idea,  after- 
ward the  idea  materialized  into  a  form.  That  is  the 
danger.  The  fascination  of  "correspondence"  as  an 
article  of  faith,  is  that  it  makes  a  religion  out  of 
poetry ;  and  who  that  has  felt  the  poetry  there  is  in 
religion,  can  be  indifferent  to  this  form  of  enthusiasm  ? 
The  wonderful  intenveavings  of  the  universe,  material 
and  mental,  what  glorious  harmonies  they  make  to 
those  who  can  understand  them  !  What  glimpses  we 
have  of  meanings,  and  what  joyful  seasons  of  accep- 
tation of  the  low  things  for  the  sake  of  the  higher 
beauty  which  is  in  all,  and  seen  through  which  nothing 


MY    CREED.  157 

is  common  or  unclean  !  But  religion  includes  all  this, 
and  more  :  it  is  principle  and  faith,  as  well  as  inten- 
tion and  enthusiasm. 

July  24,  1870. 


MY  CREED. 

IT  happens  that  I  have  not  always  the  privilege  of 
going  to  the  church  that  I  love,  and  therefore,  as  last 
Sunday,  I  often  hear  a  sermon  without  a  word  in  it 
with  which  I  can  agree,  except  the  "  Dearly  beloved 
brethren"  at  the  beginning,  and  "To  the  grace  of 
God"  at  the  end  of  the  usual  short  Episcopal  dis- 
course. There  is  a  great  deal  in  those  words,  is  there 
not  ?  you  say, — and  so  there  is — the  beginning  and 
the  ending — love  to  God  and  love  to  man — which 
first,  which  last,  we  care  not,  for  perfect  love  is  like 
eternity,  an  all-embracing  circle  !  So  I  take  my  text 
sometimes  from  behind  the  sermon,  and  even  out  of 
what  may  not  be  earnest,  make  an  earnestness  for 
myself,  perchance,  by  searching,  finding  something 
of  true  harmony  in  what  seems  incomplete,  and  some- 


158  MY    CREED. 

times  even  discordant.  If  I  could  do  it  always  !  But 
that  I  do  not,  is  my  own  fault;  the  "complementary 
notes"  are  not  sensitive  enough.  It  has  seemed  to 
me,  ever  since  I  knew  it,  to  be  one  of  the  most  sug- 
gestive and  beautiful  truths  of  science,  that  every 
note  we  strike  in  music  bears  with  it  its  full  chord, 
veiled  in  the  responsive  thrillings  of  the  other  un- 
touched but  necessary  strings.  God  leaves  nothing 
incomplete,  even  if  we  do ;  but,  ah  !  how  long  we  took 
even  to  find  that  out,  among  the  other  truths  that 
continually  shadow  forth  the  infinite  harmony  !  and 
how  hard  it  is  for  us  to  hear  those  undertones,  even 
while  we  know  they  are  there. 

Well,  this  day  I  speak  of,  there  was  some  earnest- 
ness in  the  preacher's  voice,  and  some  liberality  in  his 
views — a  little  eloquence,  too,  but  that  was  when 
he  was  stating  an  argument  for  his  opponents,  and  un- 
awares the  truthfulness  of  the  words  he  was  using 
entered  into  and  uplifted  him.  He  spoke  of  Creed, 
that  much-vexed  question,  and  though  he  settled  the 
matter  to  his  own  satisfaction  in  tying  himself  down  to 
established  formula,  by  daring  to  open  the  subject  he 
showed  he  thought  it  had  two  sides,  a  most  dangerous 
admission  for  one  who  held  his  only  safety  in  being 


MY    CREED.  159 

pledged  to  either.  He  said,  indeed,  that  truth  is  too 
large  for  creed,  that  dogma  fetters  it,  and  that  the  di- 
vine depths  of  religion  are  too  profound  for  any  plum- 
met of  reason-weighed  words.  He  said  that  the 
things  of  the  Spirit  are  not  to  be  handled — "  eye  hath 
not  seen,  nor  hath  ear  heard."  He  declared  the  dan- 
ger (how  insidious  we  know)  of  the  "  letter  that 
killeth,"  absorbing  from  the  tree  of  truth  the  very  sap, 
and  crushing  in  a  perfidious  embrace  the  source  of  its 
own  life,  which  it  hides  at  last  in  the  specious  beauty 
of  its  own  luxuriant  and  noxious  growth.  But  after  a 
glance  thus  at  the  arguments  of  his  adversaries,  leav- 
ing behind  a  very  lion  in  the  path,  he  returned  to  the 
defence  of  his  own  position,  and  here  too  he  touched 
on  truth.  Like  Christian  on  his  way  to  the  house  of 
the  Interpreter,  he  found  two  lions  in  the  way. 
Guarding  their  opposite  sides  they  stood,  each  ready 
to  spring  on  the  other,  and  woe  to  the  unwary  travel- 
ler who,  without  the  sacred  Name  on  his  forehead  and 
his  heart,  should  fail  to  boldly  press  between  and  find 
them  chained  ! — Strange,  that  in  the  whole  of  the  ser- 
mon the  name  of  Christ  should  not  have  been  once 
mentioned,  except  as  part  of  a  scheme  of  salvation 
unalterable  in  any  jot  or  tittle  from  the  iron  formula 


l6O  MY    CREED. 

of  an  unbending  creed  ! — A  truth  on  that  side,  too, 
there  is,  though  it  is  harder  for  us  to  realize  it,  who 
know  not,  blinded  by  the  dust  of  the  battle,  when  our 
adversary  is  forced  to  his  knees  for  mercy,  and  forget 
that  having  once  acknowledged  defeat,  he  may  win 
his  battles  too,  like  other  men.  Truth  wages  no  war 
a  1'outrance  against  anything  but  wickedness.  The 
wrong  heart  needs  the  baptism  of  blood  for  cleansing  ; 
the  erring  mind  is  purified  more  easily.  Many  are 
the  arguments,  and  strong  ones  too,  in  defence  of 
doctrinal  statement,  and  much  is  to  be  said  in  favor 
of  applying  to  religion  the  rules  that  make  available 
all  other  forces  in  the  economy  of  life.  Indeed,  how 
can  we  do  without  some  condensation  of  the  floating 
thoughts,  the  atmospheres  of  sentiment,  that  enwrap 
our  universe  of  would-be  action  ?  Is  not  the  vapor 
of  heaven's  own  clouds  imprisoned  in  our  engines  that 
steam  may  do  its  work  ?  We  enclose  the  lightning  in 
a  rope  of  wires,  that  nation  may  speak  to  nation  across 
the  sea,  and  we  utilize  by  compression  the  imponder- 
able forces.  Is  religion  the  only  thing  that  is  imprac- 
tical ?  Is  the  greatest  force  the  only  one  that  can 
never  be  made  available  ?  Is  there  an  exception  to  be 
made  here  to  the  great  analogy  of  existence,  and  that 


MY    CREED.  l6l 

alone  to  be  tmapprehended  which  needs  but  to  be 
grasped  to  shake  the  world  ?  There  must  be  some- 
thing to  take  hold  of,  some  vessel,  crystal-clear  it  may 
be,  and  perchance  of  no  mortal  mould,  but  some  ves- 
sel wherein  this  impalpable,  imponderable,  all-per- 
meating Principle  may  be  contained  and  passed  from 
lip  to  lip  through  the  waiting  multitude,  athirst  for 
life.  Either  fold  our  hands,  and  let  who  will  perish, 
or  go  forth  into  the  fields  ready  for  the  harvest,  each 
with  his  instrument  ready  sharpened  in  his  hand  for 
no  indolent  reaping.  Every  soldier  in  the  army  of 
the  Lord  has  his  arms  given  him,  and  trusts  to  no 
snatched-up  weapon  of  his  own  contriving.  But  do 
you  think  that  in  the  "  sword  of  the  Spirit"  I  would 
figure  any  human-forged  dogma,  welded  in  the  heat 
of  controversy  by  even  saintly  warrior  ?  No  !  and 
here  I  come  to  the  point  of  my  discourse.  I  wanted 
to  preach  myself,  that  day,  though  my  untutor'd 
tongue  would  have  faltered  in  the  utterance  of  that 
which  filled  my  soul  to  overflowing.  One  word 
would  solve  the  problem,  would  bring  unity  out  of 
the  differences,  would  link  together  the  extremes  that 
jarred,  by  bringing  in  the  centre  truth  without  which 

either  remains  forever  incomplete.     So  simple  and  yet 
ii 


162  MY    CREED. 

so  difficult,  so  close  to  every  one  of  us,  and  yet 
so  far  above  the  highest  !  The  lowliest  men  appre- 
hend it,  and  the  mightiest  pass  it  by.  But  how  can 
it  be  possible  that  this  perfect  solution  should  not  be 
acknowledged  as  the  true  one  by  the  mind,  even 
before  it  is  accepted  by  the  heart  ?  On  one  side  the 
unuttered  conception  of  abstract  Truth  and  Right,  a 
divinity  without  a  temple,  the  Unknown  God  to  whom 
the  heathens  raised  an  altar,  beyond  knowledge,  out- 
side of  love,  serene,  resplendent,  all-surrounding  but 
unapproachable,  all-pervading  but  intangible,  the 
perfect  Purity  unto  which  none  can  reach  forth  but 
the  unstained  hands,  the  perfect  Light  upon  which 
none  can  gaze  unblenching  but  the  eagle  vision. 
Through  the  dark  valley  how  are  we  to  gain  this 
height  of  contemplation — through  the  dimness  and 
the  soil  of  this  lower  atmosphere  how  find  the  upward- 
leading  path  without  a  guide?  Humanity  cries  out 
from  underneath  the  shadow  of  death,  and  is  told,  with 
"the  darkness  of  blackness"  on  its  fainting  eyes,  that 
the  eternal  Sun  still  shines,  the  God  of  Nature 
reigns,  and  He  is  just  ! — And  now  there  come  the 
armies  of  the  sects.  The  old  philosophy,  with  its 
glorious  intuitions,  is  thrust  aside,  and  dogmatism 


MY    CREED.  163 

stifles  Truth  in  unending  involutions  of  creed.  Let 
me  not  smile  at  the  cast-off  disguises,  now  but  a  heap 
of  brittle  husks,  which  once  held  food  for  angels  ! 
There  is  everywhere  a  murmuring  and  a  rustling  as 
of  new  life  springing  forth  out  of  old  forms,  and  the 
outgrown  debris  lie  like  shells  on  the  shore  of  Time's 
great  ocean,  to  mark  what  has  been,  while  we  dream 
what  may  be.  A  glory  is  coming,  greater  than  the 
past :  the  old  battles  have  been  fought,  the  old  armor 
has  been  laid  aside.  Reverently  let  it  be,  for  those 
old  creeds  were  forged  in  the  furnace  of  persecution, 
and  tempered  by  the  cold  blasts  of  adversity — and 
they  did  good  service  in  their  day.  Still  must  we 
fight ;  still  do  we  need  a  shield  invulnerable  to  the  new 
weapons  of  our  ancient  foes.  Like  the  Prince  Arthur 
of  the  Faerie  Queene,  with  his  buckler  of  a  diamond, 
would  we  be  "  clothed  on  "  with  light  as  with  a  gar- 
ment, and  ride  triumphant  through  opposing  hosts. 
But  whence  comes  this  resplendent  warrior  among  us — 
in  what  divine  panoply  does  he  advance  to  victory  ? 
In  the  last  great  Resurrection  we  are  told  that  what 
is  sown  in  death  shall  be  raised  a  spiritual  body. 
That  spiritual  body,  "whereof  we  all  are  members," 
is  Christ.  The  Reconciler,  wherein  divine  and  human 


164  MY    CREED. 

meet.  It  needs  no  more  words,  no  explanations. 
Let  there  be  an  end  to  vexing  discussions  concerning 
the  nature,  the  standing  of  Christ.  The  old  things 
have  passed  away — this  is  the  new  heaven  and  the 
new  earth,  and  yet  eternal,  for  Love  was  from  the  be- 
ginning !  The  ineffable  glory  has  beamed  forth  on 
us  through  a  human  form — the  All-Powerful  is  the  All- 
Pitying  God.  The  purest  philosophy  is  reconciled  to 
the  most  human  needs,  and  the  font  of  life  is  near  to 
every  thirsty  soul  that  will  approach  and  drink. 
Thro'  Him  who  taught  the  uttermost  of  love  in  death 
on  Calvary,  the  divine  is  brought  close  to  the  yearn- 
ing human  ;  and  through  Him  who  "  rose  on  the 
third  day,"  is  the  human  lifted  to  know  its  part  in  the 
divine  and  the  immortal.  In  the  personality  of  Christ 
the  two  wants  meet — worship  and  life  are  blended  into 
one.  The  far-off  glory  of  the  Eternal  is  brought  near 
to  human  sight  and  love  ;  and  the  limitations  of  the 
finite  are  gradually  burned  away  by  the  purifying  fire, 
in  whose  ever-ascending  flame  the  affections  are  up- 
lifted toward  their  source.  What  is  a  philosophy, 
though  built  on  truth  itself,  without  the  motive 
power  of  love  ?  What  is  a  faith,  though  passionately 
steadfast,  without  the  pole-star  of  calm  Reason  in  its 


MY    CREED.  165 

cold,  changeless  heaven  ?  Jesus  Christ,  born  two 
thousand  years  ago  in  Bethlehem,  lives  still,  and  daily 
is  crucified  in  every  Golgotha  where  sin  sits  ravening 
amid  the  bones  of  death.  Shall  we  deny  him,  who 
has  not  denied  us  ?  Shall  we  refuse  to  acknowledge 
him  as  Lord  and  Master — aye  !  and  in  the  fullest  sense 
of  obedience  and  reverence  ?  Shall  we  dare  to  say 
that  we  have  got  beyond  him,  and  reap  the  fruits  of 
the  harvest  he  watered  with  his  blood,  while  we  feign 
to  serve  the  Master  of  the  vineyard,  who  sent  him  to 
us  as  his  Son  ?  If  we  believe  in  him,  let  us  acknowl- 
edge him,  freely,  fully,  fearlessly.  If  any  words,  em- 
bodying such  truth,  are  creed,  by  such  creed  am  I 
bound.  I  want  no  further  doctrine,  nay,  I  entreat  no 
statement  may  be  added,  lest  some  may  fancy  liberty 
of  thought  impeded.  I  would  not  fright  away  one 
earnest  inquirer  from  the  fold — but  the  fold  is  that  of 
the  Good  Shepherd.  Reason  as  you  will,  philosopher, 
with  what  intellect  God  has  given  you,  but  remember 
there  is  one  place,  for  your  heart  to  be  !  Dream  as 
you  will,  O  poet,  but  know  that  Truth  is  one  with  the 
incarnate  Love !  Realize  for  once  within  you  that 
Presence  of  mingled  majesty  and  beauty,  and  then  cast 
aside,  if  you  can,  that  one  profession  of  faith — but  not 


166  JOURNAL. 

till  then,  but  not  till  then  !  And  while  that  communion 
of  spirit  is  above  you — as  it  is  yet  in  its  perfection  be- 
yond us  all — cling  to  the  standard  as  a  pledge  of 
victory,  and  doubt  yourself,  but  not  your  cause  ! 

"  Whosoever  will  confess  me  before  men,  him  will 
I  also  confess  before  my  Father  which  is  in  heaven." 
And  let  us  remember,  that  though  He  was  angry 
with  those  disciples  who  rebuked  a  man  "  because  he 
followeth  not  us,"  while  he  uttered  in  righteous  indig- 
nation those  sublime  words  of  toleration  —  "  He  that 
is  not  against  us  is  on  our  part,"  yet  it  is  recorded, 
"  He  was  casting  out  devils  in  thy  name  !  " 

July  16,  1870. 


JOURNAL. 

January  igth,  1871. — I  do  not  think  I  shall  keep  a 
journal  any  more — I  want  to  forget  myself.  It  is  self 
that  suffers — out  of  self  is  peace.  And  ' '  he  that  loseth 
his  life  shall  find  it."  Glorious  thought,  for  there  the 
strange  circle  is  complete  :  first,  as  children  we  are  un- 
conscious of  ourselves  ;  then,  we  grow  into  self-knowl- 
edge, and  we  are  men,  and  "walk  as  gods,  knowing 


JOURNAL.  167 

good  and  evil ;"  and  then  comes  the  higher  state,  above 
ourselves,  out  of  ourselves — not  self-consciousness, 
but  God-consciousness.  So  are  we  again  as  little  chil- 
dren. Eden,  the  world,  Paradise — the  old  story,  in 
the  old  Book.  Yet  have  we  gained  nothing  ?  was  the 
conflict  nothing  ?  is  Heaven  but  that  first  garden  ours 
again — no  more  ?  Shall  we  be  as  never  having  suf- 
fered ?  God  forbid  !  The  Messiah's  crown  was  not 
of  gold,  but  thorns — the  Messiah's  glory  "as  of  the 
Lamb,  once  slain  !"  I  saw  in  Naples  a  picture  of  the 
little  child  asleep  upon  the  cross,  its  tiny  arms  em- 
bracing with  a  touching  innocence  the  instrument  of 
future  anguish.  If  the  nails  had  been  thrust  then 
through  the  tender  baby-feet  would  the  guileless  sacri- 
fice have  saved  the  world  ?  Nay,  though  the  Father's 
own  hand  had  struck  the  blow,  and  the  little  one, 
seeing  His  smile,  had  trusted  to  the  last !  It  was  the 
Man  of  sorrows,  and  acquainted  with  grief,  who  was 
tempted  in  the  wilderness,  who  prayed  the  cup  might 
pass — who  was  "  lifted  up,"  that  He  "  might  draw  all 
men  unto  Him  !  "  Oh,  that  being  so  drawn,  we  might 
be  "  lift  eel  up  !  "  Self-forgetfulness — the  sublime  les- 
son of  the  cross,  the  fulfilment,  in  a  wonderful  paradox, 
of  the  greatest  lesson  pure  philosophy  could  teach : 


168  JOURNAL. 

"  Know  thyself!  "  Self-forgetfulness — but  there  must 
first  have  been  a  self  to  forget !  So  nothing  is  wrong 
— the  unrest,  the  aspiration,  the  self-assertion,  the  self- 
despisal,  all  the  pain  and  the  harassing  consciousness 
when  the  soul  is  waking  up,  and  stretching  its  wings 
uneasily.  I  believe  it  is  all  meant — a  phase  of  growth, 
and  some  time  the  poor  little  breaking  buds  will  blos- 
som into  the  white  flowers  of  Peace. 

It  is  to  me  peculiarly  touching — this  way  in  which 
the  struggle  finds  its  completeness — this  ending  where 
we  began,  as  little  children,  of  whom  "  is  the  kingdom 
of  heaven ! "  How  one  longs  for  the  baby-days 
sometimes  ! 

But  infinitely  better  is  the  last  state  than  the  first. 
There  is  a  sublimity  in  this  innocence  which  is  not  of 
Eden.  Purified  in  the  river  of  the  water  of  Life,  ab- 
sorbed in  God,  floating  in  the  ocean  of  His  love,  to 
breathe,  feel,  live  in  Him — that  is  Heaven.  Neither 
so  shall  we  lose  our  own  identity.  He  in  us,  and  also, 
we  in  Him.  Not  only  loved,  but  loving  too,  and  living 
most  perfectly  in  that.  Again  I  come  to  that  thought 
— "  He  that  loseth  his  life  shall  find  it." 

January  20//2. — I  wrote  part  of  this  yesterday,  not 


JOURNAL.  169 

meaning  to  get  so  deep,  but  I  think  it  is  going  to  be  a. 
pleasure  to  me  to  express  sometimes,  as  far  as  I  can,  a 
thought.  Sometimes  there  is  one  that  haunts  me  till 
I  put  it  down  in  words — or  at  least  measure  my 
strength  with  it,  till  I  know  how  much  too  great  it  is 
for  me.  Sometimes,  too,  there  is  a  fancy,  or  a  turn  of 
words,  that  perhaps  there  is  no  harm  in  my  catching 
before  it  flies.  In  the  midst  of  duties,  so  different, 
which  now  I  am  called  upon  to  perform,  it  may  be  that 
in  this  way  now  and  then  I  may  remember  to  bring  a 
little  oil  to  my  intellectual  lamp, — for  certainly  nothing 
helps  one  so  much  to  ideas  as  trying  to  express  those 
one  already  has  ! 

But  I  talk  about  this  as  though  I  had  made  a  plan, 
after  long  reflection,  whereas  it  was  but  the  day  before 
yesterday  that  the  longing  to  write  first  came  to  me. 
Even  now  I  feel  a  kind  of  pain  at  my  heart,  which 
warns  me  how  near  is  the  old  habit  of  introspection. 
I  cannot  bear  it, — I  must  not.  Oh,  Father  in  heaven  ! 
I  have  given  my  grief  to  thee  !  Keep  it  for  me,  till  I 
am  strong  enough  to  look  at  it !  Some  day  thou  wilt 
transmute  it  utterly  into  a  joy — but,  I  think,  not  until 
we  are  beyond  the  River  shall  we  be  able  to  receive 
it  so! 


I/O  JOURNAL. 

May's  bird  is  singing  in  my  studio  while  I  write. 
The  darling  !  Soon  I  mean  to  have  some  plants  there 
— a  hanging  basket,  and  some  ferns  growing  out  of  a 
white  shell  that  Katie  gave  me,  and  he  will  like  that. 
Now  he  is  very  lonely  in  there,  with  only  the  poor  little 
pictures  standing  about,  waiting  till  I  get  the  room 
ready  for  painting  in.  I  don't  know  whether  I  ever 
shall  paint  much,  but  I  am  going  to  attempt  it  as  soon 
as  the  bare  walls  shall  no  longer  disconcert  me.  Last 
summer  I  formed  a  lovely  plan,  and  now  I  want  to 
carry  it  out  exactly  as  I  told  Mamma.  Everything  in 
my  life  is  sacred  through  her  now — for  everything  in 
my  life  was  shared  with  her  ! 

Last  May  a  few  pages  I  had  written  at  Dr.  Bellows' 
request,  were  printed  in  "  Old  and  New,"  and  late  in 
the  summer  I  received,  unexpectedly,  a  check  for 
fifteen  dollars,  the  first  money  I  ever  made,  and  as  an 
earnest  of  what  I  had  done,  it  was  very  pleasant  to  me. 
I  remember  the  glee  we  had  over  it,  oh,  how  well !  I 
had  some  projects,  but  was  not  allowed  to  give  it  away ; 
so  at  last  my  wishes  gathered  about  the  ideal  statue 
which  has  so  long  reigned  over  my  artist-dreams,  and 
a  cast  of  the  Venus  of  Milo  I  must  have  !  May  and  I 
went  in  search  of  it  on  Wednesday,  and  the  .lovely 


JOURNAL.  I/I 

white  thing  came  home  the  next  evening.  I  bought 
also  Michelet's  beautifully  illustrated  book  "  L'Oiseau," 
wherein  I  have  glimpses  of  the  free  Nature-world  of 
wings  and  song.  With  that  and  the  master-piece  of 
antique  Art  to  contemplate,  I  ought  to  be  happy — out 
of  my  "  fortune."  One  thing  more  I  have,  a  mask  of 
Michael  Angelo's  Dying  Captive.  That,  in  its  incom- 
pleteness, is  but  a  suggestion, — yet  it  has  in  it  for  me 
all  Italy,  coming  beautifully  between  the  others,  and  a 
never-to-be-forgotten  remembrance  of  last  summer's 
happy  reading  ! 

These  things  are  the  beginning  of  my  studio.  The 
Venus  is  to  stand  in  a  niche,  lined  with  some  warm 
dark  color,  and  sheltered  behind  the  folds  of  a  rich 
green  curtain  (my  only  piece  of  luxury),  which  is  to  be 
drawn  aside,  revealing  the  genius  loci.  Then  I  shall 
have  rugs  on  the  floor,  and  some  time  a  pretty  wood- 
carpet.  I  have  a  good  many  studies  to  put  on  the 
walls,  and  my  own  pictures  ;  it  is  a  question  if  I  shall 
not  get  very  tired  of  seeing  them  every  day  !  About 
all  these  I  mean  to  twine  Autumn  leaves,  and  wreaths 
of  that  graceful  Hartford  fern  which  Rosalie  Goodman 
gave  me  ;  and  long  trailing  pieces  of  gray  Southern 
moss,  a  present  from  Zelina  Ripley.  My  mantel  is  to 


1/2  JOURNAL. 

be  draped,  a  shelf  and  a  bracket  or  two  put  up,  and 
then  with  my  green  growing  things  in  the  window,  and 
May's  bird,  I  shall  have  a  little  bower  of  my  own  to 
paint  in.  I  like  to  think  of  it  now,  and  it  is  good  for 
me  to  think  of  it ! 

* 
February  ^d  (Friday]. — At  the  Philharmonic  to-day. 

There  is  a  musical  silence,  and  there  is  a  silence  that 
is  only  absence  of  sound.  In  some  symphonies  there 
comes  a  crash,  and  then  a  dead  feeling  of  vacancy. 
That  is  one  silence.  But  let  a  master  wield  the 
mighty  mass  of  instruments — there  comes  a  rushing 
wind,  and  the  great  waves  of  sound  pile  up  into  a 
mountainous  crescendo,  then  a  breathless  pause,  and 
the  sky  bends  low  to  hear  the  coming  murmur  of  the 
thunder  !  Or  in  the  midst  of  rippling  melodies,  well- 
ing up  in  floods  of  living  sunshine  from  the  warm  full 
heart  that  has  beat  near  to  Mother  Nature's,  there 
falls  a  sweet  hush  of  peace,  and  the  waters  gather  into 
some  still  pool,  deep  with  heaven's  depths  of  azure, 
tranquil  as  though  it  never  would  overflow  the  brink 
of  its  own  perfectness. 

But  these  words  do  not  show  forth  those  silences. 
In  their  own  nature  they  are  inexpressible,  and  being 


JOURNAL.  173 

beyond  words,  we  look  on  them  with  awe.  What  is 
this  something  ultimate,  this  ocean  which  surrounds 
and  encloses  sound,  yet  penetrating  into  it  and  de- 
fining it  with  subtle  walls  of  boundary  ?  Penetrated 
in  its  turn  by  the  invisible  echoes  of  spent  music,  our 
conception  of  it  recedes  into  the  farthest  limits  of 
space ;  yet  it  is  about  us,  intimate  as  the  air,  and  as 
necessary  to  sound,  of  which  it  is  the  background,  as 
shadow  is  to  sunlight.  Do  we  not  think  of  silence  as 
enveloping  creation  during  that  mysterious  brooding 
of  the  Spirit,  and  broken  only  with  those  words  that, 
bringing  Light,  struck  the  first  chord  of  the  harmo- 
nious universe,  and  set  the  spheres  in  motion  ? 

There  is  a  silence  of  life,  and  there  is  a  silence  of 
death — a  blank,  a  hopelessness,  a  chill — but  of  that  I 
shall  not  speak.  Little  do  we  know  now  of  what  may 
follow  either  ;  little  do  we  know  now  of  the  great 
Composer's  plan ;  but  we  have  in  the  grand  sym- 
phony our  instruments,  and  if  sometimes  our  discords 
are  but  the  steps  to  a  more  glorious  height  of  har- 
mony, may  we  not  also  bear  the  weary  pauses  with  a 
sure  hope  that  they,  too,  work  to  music? 

February  %th, — May's  bird  was  singing  to-day  his 


174  JOURNAL. 

very  sweetest,  after  a  long  time  of  quietness — and  what 
has  stirred  his  little  soul  to  melody  ?  In  my  studio  the 
men  were  sawing  the  wood-carpet,  and  he  needs  must 
turn  the  harsh  sound  of  their  tools  to  song !  What  a 
transmutation  !  Lead  to  gold  was  nothing  to  it ! 
Birdie,  you  are  a  little  philosopher — or  better,  perhaps ! 

February  loth. — My  studio  is  finished,  and  most 
lovely  it  is.  How  it  would  have  satisfied  Mamma  ! 

February  \2th. — For  days  this  week  there  has  been  a 
superabundant  electricity  in  the  air,  such  as  we  often 
notice  in  winter,  but  lately  it  has  been  constant. 
Usually  a  spark,  when  hands  touch,  is  noticed  as 
something  to  be  spoken  of,  and  the  little  crackle 
makes  the  children  laugh.  But  now,  as  they  run  to 
kiss  me,  there  is  no  sound,  only  a  sharp  flash  of  pain 
runs  through  the  centre  of  the  sweetness.  I  do  not 
think  they  know  it,  the  dear  little  ones  !  But  it  has 
given  me  a  strange,  mystical  notion  concerning  love 
and  love's  intensity.  The  bitterness  that  points  the 
arrow  of  the  joy,  the  piercing  underneath  the  softness, 
the  fire  in  the  midst  of  the  kiss  ! 

The  more  we  love,  the  more  we  are  able  to  suffer ; 


JOURNAL.  175 

and  in  love's  self  there  is  the  inner  ache  of  longing. 
But  would  we  part  from  that  to  escape  from  this? 
Nay,  a  thousand  times  !  And  I  think  of  one  thing 
more.  That  sudden,  silent  flame,  which  we  knew 
only  by  the  pain  of  it,  may  it  not  be  the  emblem  of 
the  spirit  ?  I  know  of  nothing  more  like  spirit  than 
this  impalpable,  imponderable  essence,  which  per- 
vades all  nature  with  its  mysterious  vitality — Electri- 
city, running  through  the  universe  on  the  messages 
of  the  Unseen,  winged  with  the  silent,  unutterable 
powers  of  Light  and  Heat.  Not  the  secret  of  Life  yet, 
but  marvellous  type  of  a  mystery  ineffable  ! 

February  \%th. — Last  night  they  were  talking  of  the 
weight  of  the  atmosphere  upon  a  square  inch  of  the 
human  frame,  and  the  tremendous  consequent  pres- 
sure upon  the  whole  body,  while  yet  we  move  so 
freely  and  so  lightly  upon  our  daily  errands,  uncon- 
scious of,  because  interpenetrated  with,  the  enwrap- 
ping force.  It  flashed  across  me :  Is  not  this  the 
"perfect  law  of  liberty?"  The  sublime  paradox  of 
the  New  Testament — the  new  liberty  fulfilling,  not 
destroying,  the  old  law  ?  It  is  the  Spirit  which,  fill- 
ing, vivifying  the  universe,  makes — is — Law,  constrain- 


176  JOURNAL. 

ing,  crushing  where  there  is  a  void,  if  so  be  it  may 
force  its  way  through  broken  stone,  through  bruised 
flesh,  into  the  heart  of  an  emptiness  that  knows  not 
yet  the  presence  of  its  life-bringing  breath  ;  but  gentle 
as  an  angel's  touch  upon  the  brow  of  one  who,  filled 
with  the  Divine  inspiring,  moves  in  his  own  element, 
and,  God  being  in  him,  need  not  be  afraid  to  be  in 
God! 

March. — I  scarcely  dare  touch  on  this  :  The  inno- 
cent suffering  for  the  guilty.  It  is  a  mystery  that 
goes  down  deep,  close  to  the  infinite  heart  of  God. 
How  deeply  it  searches  into  some  human  hearts,  He 
only  knows.  But  the  answer  is  in  the  purification  by 
pain — purification  of  the  sufferer — that  seems  not  so 
hard  to  understand  :  though  its  anguish  be  as  of  death 
sometimes,  and  blinding  in  the  poignancy  of  it,  still 
it  is  comprehensible,  and  received  as  truth  in  clearer 
moments  ;  but  the  purification  of  those  suffered  for, 
that  is  the  inner  of  the  innermost.  But  certainly  be- 
tween the  guilty  and  the  One  infinitely  pure  there 
must  be  some  reconciling  link,  and  that  is  in  the  suf- 
fering innocence  of  a  loving  mediator.  I  wish  the 
word  were  not  incrusted  with  such  a  husk  of  dogma- 


JOURNAL.  I// 

tism.  One  standing  between,  not  to  avert  judgment, 
but  to  win  from  sin — not  to  intercede  with  the  Father, 
but  to  implore  the  child.  The  Father  loves  already — 
did  He  not  send  His  Son  ?  But  the  child — oh  !  how 
it  needs  to  know  that  love,  and,  knowing  it,  to  hate 
the  sin  that  makes  it  suffer !  A  goodness,  perfect 
though  it  might  be,  that  could  pass  serene  through  a 
world  of  guilt  and  pain,  might  comfort,  might  alle- 
viate, but  it  would  never  save  !  That  mysterious 
bond  of  anguish  was  the  only  one  that  could  connect 
the  sinless  with  the  sinning.  It  has  come  to  me  in  a 
wonderful  illumination — Life  asking,  half  answering 
the  question,  and  the  Story,  with  its  perfect  type, 
nay,  with  the  human,  divine  reality  fulfilling  all.  It 
is  a  mystery,  but  not  a  contradiction ;  underneath 
reason,  but  not  against  it.  There  is  no  avenging 
God,  but  One  who  loves  beyond  all  we  "can  ask  or 
think."  Yet  who  loves  so  much  as  the  sinless,  who 
can  be  truly  merciful  but  the  truly  just  ?  Oh,  Christ 
dying  is  no  dogma,  but  a  living,  breathing  truth. 
"  Greater  love  hath  no  man  than  this,  that  a  man  lay 
down  his  life  for  his  friend."  At  the  root  of  love's 
bliss  lies  the  pain  of  love's  sacrifice,  and  the  "shedding 
of  blood"  is  the  "healing  of  the  nations."  To  suffer, 


178  JOURNAL. 

then,  is  blessed  beyond  all  words — to  give  is  to  be 
rich  beyond  all  counting.  Suffering,  we  rejoice,  yet 
not  for  ourselves ;  giving,  we  gain,  yet  for  others 
more  !  Oh,  blessed  baptism  which  Christ  was  bap- 
tized with  !  Oh,  sacred  cup  which  Jesus  drank  !  Oh, 
solemn  sacrament  of  blood  and  of  fire,  we  "  know  not 
what  we  ask."  The  flesh  trembles,  the  spirit  faints, 
but  He,  beyond  what  we  can  ask  or  think — He  gives 
"exceeding  abundantly."  He  gives — the  crowned 
king !  He  gives,  the  Lamb  who  died  !  We  ask  for 
thrones,  He  gives  a  cross  !  We  seek  ourselves,  yet 
has  He  not  given  us  Himself?  O  yearning,  waiting 
love  !  O  gentle  Saviour,  to  men's  eyes  abased  in 
that  strange  "  lifting  up,"  shalt  thou  not  draw  all  men 
unto  thee  ?  And  following,  though  far  off,  in  thy 
steps,  shall  not  we,  to  whom  thou  hast  vouchsafed 
the  grace  to  bear  in  their  own  cross  some  shadow  of 
the  weight  of  thine — shall  not  we,  unworthy  as  we 
are  to  be  partakers  of  the  suffering,  be  partakers  also 
of  the  consolation ! 

June  T>d. — How  many  thoughts  there  are  in  us, 
growing  up,  so  we  can  feel  them  stirring  and  pushing, 
and  yet,  somehow,  the  garden  is  all  shut  up,  and  if 
anybody  goes  by,  there  is  a  great  high  fence  of  silence 


JOURNAL.  179 

between  them  and  it !  Well,  they  want  to  get  uttered 
— the  poor  thoughts — and  I  suppose  that  is  the  reason 
they  strive  so  under  the  dark  ground,  that  is  very 
warm  and  kind  to  them,  I  know,  and  gives  them 
something,  too  —  almost  all,  perhaps  —  though  they 
don't  know  it,  struggling  on  through  the  dimness, 
feeling  the  heaviness  about  them,  and  the  clog,  they 
think,  though  all  the  time  it  is  the  very  flesh  and 
blood  their  aspiring  little  selves  are  made  of!  Then, 
some  time,  they  come  up.  They  are  close  to  our 
lips,  and  shine  out  of  our  eyes,  and  we  know  they 
are,  by  the  looks  and  the  perfume  of  them.  But  sup- 
pose we  try  to  touch  them, — how  they  shrink  and 
shiver,  and  make  up  little  wrinkled  faces  at  us,  and  we 
think  they  are  going  to  die,  in  the  fading  and  the 
paleness  of  their  fairy-like  reluctance  !  Yes,  try  to 
write  a  thought  down,  and  it  is  as  hard  to  catch  as  a 
south  wind,  or  a  butterfly  !  Then,  too,  you  feel  as  if 
you  were  not  doing  right — as  if  the  pretty  blossom 
ought  to  be  left  growing  in  its  shady  nook,  undis- 
turbed in  the  midst  of  the  crowding  and  the  tangle  of 
its  sister-growths  in  the  wildwood.  Shall  we  dig  it 
up,  and  shake  its  tender  roots,  and  carry  it  out  into 
the  sunny  broadness  of  the  garden  ?  Let  them  alone, 


T  8O  JOURNAL. 

most  of  them,  for  they  are  not  strong  enough  for  the 
transplanting,  and  the  clinging  tendrils  would  break 
if  you  untwined  them.  Let  them  stay  there  in  their 
solitude,  where  no  eye  sees  them,  even  a  loving  one, 
that  could  distinguish  a  rare  blossom  from  among  the 
lowly  undergrowth  of  clustering  sweetness  !  Perhaps 
a  nameless  odor  may  steal  up  behind  the  envious  wall 
that  hides  them  from  the  highroad,  and  gladden  so, 
unseen,  a  weary  passer-by  ! 

Yet  transplanting  is  good,  too,  for  some  things,  and 
gives  a  room  for  larger  growth.  Well,  we  shall  see. 
Seed-time  must  be,  and  harvest  also  !  But  the  har- 
vest-days need  not  be  very  near — to  be  sure  of  them  ! 

June  "Jtk. — Poets  and  little  children  are  never  afraid 
you  will  not  understand  them.  They  have  their  hearts 
full,  and  they  speak— as  a  bird  sings — for  the  thought's 
sake,  and  not  for  the  world's.  But  with  a  touching 
confidingness  to  the  world  they  go — for  they  must 
have  somebody  to  tell.  They  can't  explain — their 
story  "says  itself"  in  their  own  baby-speech,  and 
'  they  must  trust  you  for  the  rest.  A  little  bit  out  of 
heaven,  perhaps,  they  have  to  bring  you,  a  morsel  of 
sky  in  a  blue  flower-cup,  or  a  star  caught  twinkling  in 


FROM    A    LETTER.  l8l 

a  scrap  of  dingy  quartz  ;  but  it  is  a  weed  or  a  stone  to 
you — so  far  off  from  the  childlikeness.  Your  loss 
too  ;  but  the  sorrow  is  the  little  one's,  and  it  runs  away 
grieved,  because  you  do  not  understand— happy  if  it 
has  its  mother's  lap  to  hide  its  tears  in  ! 

June  ijtk. — I  gave  Nora  a  bird  yesterday.  It  is 
very  young  yet,  and  does  not  sing ;  but  she  is  so 
happy,  loving  it  already  for  the  sake  of  the  song  that 
is  to  be  !  It  seems  to  me  it  is  like  God's  gifts  to 
us,  this  winged  thing,  with  a  secret  of  glad  voice 
hidden  in  its  tender  breast — a  possession,  hardly  yet 
a  having — something  to  hold  and  cherish,  something 
entirely  ours,  yet  not  all  ours  at  once.  In  all  God's 
giving  there  is  a  withholding,  yet  what  he  withholds 
is,  in  the  very  promise,  given,  and  the  waiting — may 
not  that  be  a  very  sweet  part  too  ?  "  For  all  is  yours 
— things  present,  things  to  come."  All  is,  not  even 
will  be.  Surely,  the  promise  is  in  our  hand,  and 
though  the  beauty  be  not  yet  all  unfolded,  it  is  given — 
let  us  be  sure  it  is  received. 

June  i8//z.  (From  a  letter  to  Z.  R.) — Do  you  know 
the  Adagio  of  Beethoven's  XI.  Sonata  ?  Do  play  it, 


182  FROMALETTER. 

and  think  of  me  !     It  says  something  for  me 

I  should  be  vain  to  say  my  thought  were  worthy  of 
such  a  garment,  but  it  is  an  ideal  purple  robe  that  it 
might  wear,  if  it  were  crowned  ! — I  am  getting  mys- 
tical ;  but  you  and  I  pledged  friendship  on  an  ame- 
thyst, and  I  want  you  to  see  in  this  musical  coloring 
the  alternate  glow  and  deepening  of  the  waves  of 
red  and  blue — the  passion  and  the  peace — that  unite 
at  last  into  the  spiritual  rapture,  the  tremulous,  soft 
glory  of  the  culminating  purple. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

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